All Roads Lead to You
by moonmama
Summary: When you’ve lost everything you really care about, a simple gift can be like a rare treasure. And if you cherish it, it might just bring possibilities beyond anything you could ever imagine. TenII/Rose post-JE. Human!Eight/Smith & Charley pre-Neverland
1. Chapter 1

The events of the Doctor's Eighth incarnation always remained rather a mystery to his subsequent selves.

It was the Time War, of course, that did it. However long the conflict had actually lasted - and he was never sure if it was days or centuries - the repercussions of it had wreaked havoc with his life, with all of Gallifrey, and with the entire universe at large, effectively ripping apart the threads of his life throughout all the years that had led up to it.

He knew that the inferno of the war had left the Timeline in disarray, and that those years were irreparably fragmented; fractured with memories of events and people lost or in tatters. In some cases he had conflicting memories of being in two or more places, worlds, even universes, at the same time. In other cases, there were gaping holes in his memory, and much as he suspected this to be a blessing, he still wondered occasionally as to what was lost.

One thing was for certain; he carried no recollection of his years spent travelling with Charlotte Pollard, and in particular, had no memory whatsoever of the time they travelled together to a parallel universe, and he took human form.

+ - + - + - +

_The road now leads onward  
As far as can be  
Winding lanes  
And hedgerows in threes  
By purple mountains  
And round every bend  
All roads lead to you  
There is no journey's end. _

_-Loreena McKennitt_

She sits in her car; her carefully constructed vehicle, wearing her perfectly tailored clothing, and she waits.

It's the waiting she'll never get used to; the attempt to order life into a prescribed series of events organised around the minutes and seconds of the day. The futile attempt to put structure around chaos, because it's never possible to be precisely on time. You never know what could happen on the way – traffic or weather, the bloom of a flower or the fall of a tree branch, a heart attack, a chance meeting with a lost loved-one; the possibilities are endless and infinite.

She sits, twisting the strap of her handbag between her fingers and waits for the unexpected.

And nothing happens.

The clock ticks off the seconds until the appointed time is finally here. She gets out of the car, cup of coffee in hand, and slowly makes her way to the designated area.

Today, she's picking up her little brother from school. Mum is taking a class this autumn on Tuesday afternoons – ballroom dancing or jazz piano or something like that; she can't recall exactly, and she's asked Rose to take care of this task, once a week. Rose agreed without objections, even though she knows full well that they've got a nanny, and Mum only did this to get her away from the office once in a while.

She doesn't mind; Tony is seven now so he doesn't need much looking-after, and hopefully it will get Mum to take the nagging down a notch.

She looks across the schoolyard and spots her brother in the middle of a slightly disorganised procession of children, all apparently engaged in a raucous game of Follow the Leader. She watches Tony as he ducks under a slide, scrambles over a climbing structure, leapfrogs over his predecessor, until the entire ragtag group finally convenes around the schoolyard gates and dissipates.

That's when she notices him; the leader of the procession – a teacher who's laughing with delight at his audience as he pants for air, bent over with his hands on his knees.

She walks up to him from behind and prods him with an, "Excuse me." He turns, and then she's looking straight into blue eyes, stubbled skin and wind-tousled chestnut hair that's pulled back into a loose ponytail.

"I'm here to pick up Tony Tyler," she explains.

He's dressed in black trousers and a light blue button-down shirt, and although she's surprised to see a man working here with young children, that's not what sets him apart. It's something in the curve of his jaw, in the way he draws in breath deliberately and deeply that hints of a gentility beyond the average schoolteacher, as if he'd come from old money and abandoned it all to live a working class life.

He turns to search for the boy in question and spots him chatting with two of his friends. "Tony, your mum is here!" he calls to him.

She feels herself redden, although this is hardly the first time the mistake has been made. "Oh no," she corrects him, reaching out to grasp his arm before thinking better of it and pulling it back in what eventually comes off as an awkward-looking stretch. "I'm his sister, not his mother."

He straightens up and gazes at her and now he's really _looking_ at her, his curiosity piqued, but before he asks the question, Tony lets out a joyful yelp of, "Rose!" and races to her, running smack into her with the full enormity of a seven-year-old's hug. It causes her to stumble backwards, nearly sloshing coffee on herself, and she lets out a good-natured laugh.

The action is unfamiliar; the impetus is positively foreign.

"Let me guess," offers the man facing her. "Remarriage? Your father or your mother?" It's a probing question that, oddly enough, doesn't come off the least bit impertinent, and she wonders if this man could ever say anything that sounds rude.

She grabs Tony's hand as he tries to slip away, deftly swinging him back into a hug round her waist. "Both, actually," she replies. For a moment, she actually considers explaining the truth to him, and her mouth edges upward at the prospect of his incredulous expression, but all she says is, "It's a long story."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Those are usually the best kind."

Something in the way he says it, in the genuine curiosity in his intent gaze – something pricks at her. It's not recognition and it's not attraction, but it's somewhere in the space between the two. She wonders if he's got a brother or a cousin or some relative that she's met before.

She mulls over just how much she can get away with telling him; finds, strangely enough that she _wants_ to tell him, but then Tony is tugging at her hand and asking her to take him out for ice cream, so she shrugs at him helplessly. "I've got to go," she explains, and turns to leave.

He nods to her in farewell, turns away from her and Tony goes to get his book bag. And then something makes her pause and face him again. "I'm Rose Tyler, by the way."

He turns back, and she notes the way he moves; it's with a grace as if he could command the very air around him. His presence somehow seems much larger than his modest frame would suggest, and in spite of herself, she stares at him over her coffee cup as she takes a sip.

"Pleased to meet you, Rose," he says. "I'm John Smith."

She chokes on the coffee and hurriedly wipes at her chin with the back of her hand before it drips down her front.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah," she shakes her head in embarrassment. "Known a lot of Smiths in my life, that's all," she explains vaguely.

"Well, there are a lot of us to know," he dismisses.

_Mickey, Mickey's Gran, Sarah Jane, _she ticks off in her mind. _And him_. She shakes her head as if waking up from a dream. "Used to know, I should say," she amends with a nervous laugh as she wonders why she's telling him this. "Gone now."

His expression goes beyond curiosity and it unnerves her, but there's no malice there, no hidden agenda in the way his brow creases, in the way he steps closer and touches his fingertips to her sleeve as he studies her. It's concern and it's inquisitiveness of an uncomplicated variety that's rarely found in adults, and she thinks she can see why he works with children.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he replies, doesn't press. He glances behind him where two boys are about to come to blows over a Spiderman action figure, before looking back at her with a sight bow of farewell. "I hope we meet again, Rose Tyler. I think I'd like to hear some of those long stories of yours."

And then, almost before she can blink, he's off dealing with the boys, so this time when Tony tugs at her, she follows.

She decides to take him out for ice cream after all, and when she tries Rum Raisin for the first time, she finds she quite likes it.

+ - + - + - +

The evening is a typical one, filled with Pokemon and math homework with Tony, dinner with Mum and Pete-who-isn't-her-dad, and whatever overly-sentimental movie Mum has decided has the right message that she needs to hear today to cure her of whatever ill she believes she suffers from.

This time, the selection is even less subtle than usual, featuring a career girl who's terrified to let herself love again, until the right man comes along.

Apparently three weeks is enough of a mourning period as far as Mum is concerned. She does her best not to roll her eyes at _every_ scene, settling instead for pedantic comments about the dated wardrobe selections and the New York City sights that she recognises from the last time she was there, and she turns her head ever so slightly at the romantic climax so as not to let anyone see that she's looking away.

Mum still sees her do it.

It's after 11:00 when she arrives home finally. She turns her key in the lock and steps inside, and everything looks exactly the same.

But she knows just how deceiving looks can be. When someone has almost no possessions, it's hard to tell when they've left. But she knows.

She sniffs the air and shivers inside the space that feels huge now, when it used to be so confining. Everything is exactly in place, right where she left it, but she knows he's been by and she knows he's gone for good. The loss is enormous; crushing, but it's not new. What _is_ new is the open space around her; the freedom from responsibility. Responsibility for the man who was never supposed to exist in the first place; the man who was never able to sit still inside four walls and who never should've been forced to try.

To have lost him once; ripped apart against both their wills between the walls of realities – it nearly killed her.

And then to find him, only to lose him again, this time in a slow whimper – the first tore out her heart and held it hostage. The second simply succumbed to the degenerative disease of daily life on Earth.

She slips into bed and cries herself to sleep, knowing that they're both as trapped as they ever were. They're just in separate cells now.

+ - + - + - +

The Doctor had worked for Torchwood for a full nine months before things imploded.

The time had been quite productive - or entirely wasted, depending on whose viewpoint was being expressed at any given time. He had taken on a pet project regarding the integrity of the timeline, and had even managed to convince the Torchwood higher-ups of the vulnerability of the Web of Time in a universe where Time Lords had never existed.

Or so they interpreted his message. Strictly speaking, the statement, while _technically_ correct, was misleading, and when used improperly, downright disingenuous. He had explained this at quite some length to the aforementioned higher-ups; an explanation that had involved re-tracing the roots of the Web of Time itself, Rassillon, and the creation of the Eye of Harmony that anchored reality in the primary universe, and created an infinite number of variations, i.e. 'parallel' universes as a consequence. The explanation had gone on for three hours, included visual aids in a variety of formats, including animation, gone off on a number of tangents, not the least irrelevant of which involved the evolution of soft-curd cheese in western Switzerland, and ultimately put two of the aforementioned higher-ups to sleep. This necessitated returning to the original statement:

The Web of Time was vulnerable in a universe where Time Lords had never existed.

At this point he had tried to interject that the vulnerability had nothing to do with the fact that the Time Lords had never been there, but rather because they were no longer around _anywhere_ to regulate the cascade effect of the alternate realities as they progressed away gradually from the primary one, but at this point, Pete had jabbed him in the ribs, causing him to let out a rather embarrassing squeal, successfully putting an end to his digression and shutting him up entirely on the matter.

In the end, his project had been approved, the funds granted, and the Doctor had been given lease to tinker on his project: creating a fully objective, fully universal Time monitor. It was designed to detect and catalogue, at the nanosecond level, every single disturbance in the Web of Time.

Sensing Time disturbances was second nature to Time Lords, as he had explained, so this project was rather like building artificial eyes for people who had never in their history known the meaning of sight.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, there was nothing to see.

Or, more accurately, nothing to sense. Once completed, the device ran flawlessly, and even continued running through several blackouts thanks to the backup power supply that he had built into the device, which was designed to run off of bananas.

The fact that it detected nothing only served to enrage the aforementioned higher-ups.

This was a position that utterly befuddled the Doctor, since he had considered the lack of Time disturbances to be a _good_ thing, and was rather taken by surprise at the suggestion that his device might be useless in every respect save for its revolutionary use of bananas as fuel.

To which he had pointed out that that fact alone was enough to revolutionise the world's use of energy and effectively halt climate change.

The conversation had deteriorated from there.

In the end, the device was shuffled into a corner amongst the various other monitoring devices that ran continuously at Torchwood, and it was moved onto the roster of logs to be checked on a monthly basis.

Once a month.

Which explains why, when the Timeline folded over one Saturday afternoon around Brooklyn, New York, effectively losing a full three nanoseconds, nobody noticed.

_tbc_


	2. 2: Tiddlywinks & Half Time Lords

It's raining the following Tuesday; a steady soaking coming down from the sky that started before sunup, and is predicted to continue throughout the day.

Rose is beyond exhausted when she arrives at the school to pick Tony up.

Torchwood has been contending with an alien threat in the form of body-swappers preying on the homeless, and the situation has become critical enough that all other regular business has been postponed. Rose's meeting with Pete regarding Weevil control in Lambeth has to be delayed till next week, and her annual physical has been rescheduled for Friday.

She's soggy, both literally and figuratively after spending the day outside in a chase that has yielded little and landed two Torchwood operatives in hospital. As she makes her way indoors to the auditorium where the children are congregated waiting for their rides, she has to remind herself not to take her grouchiness out on her brother.

She scans the room in search of Tony – scans past a game of Tag that threatens to trample the gaggle of girls playing dolls over by the rear wall, past a group of boys sharing trading cards and past the occasional studious pupil, buried in a book amidst all the activity.

Then she spots him – John Smith – and the corners of her mouth tug upwards, because he's stretched out on the floor in the corner, opposite a girl no more than five years of age. Even from Rose's vantage point across the room she can see the tears staining the girl's face, the short, sharp breaths wracking her small shoulders, giving evidence of the depth of the child's sorrow – the sorrow that's being allayed right now by a game of Tiddlywinks.

She winds her way between the children running in all directions until she's standing over him. When he sees her, he looks up with a welcoming grin, and there it is again – the inquisitiveness under the guise of playfulness in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and in the way he smiles like he's genuinely happy to see her – like he's been waiting for her.

She sees this in a momentary glance at him and it's like a nudge to something sleeping deep inside her, but all she says is, "Can you tell me where Tony is?"

"Rose Tyler," he greets her as he climbs to his feet. "Excuse me for a moment, Molly," he shoots back to his Tiddlywinks opponent before returning to face her. "Your brother," he says, stressing the second word to show her he remembers, "is in the art room with Mrs. Larrabee. He was particularly insistent that he be permitted to finish today's project."

She nods knowingly. "Yeah – never been one for doing things halfway, that's Tony."

John nods, but something else has his attention, and he reaches out to finger a lock of her hair. "You appear to have been caught in the rain," he comments as he releases it.

She knows how dishevelled she looks – she did a quick repair job on her makeup in the car, but her hair is still in quite a state. "Not caught," she corrects him. "I've been out in it all day and it's just been pouring nonstop. It's for work," she adds vaguely.

His eyebrows go up in an unspoken question, so she adds, "It's a long story," refusing to elaborate.

"Of course, of course," he nods. His head turns slightly and he gazes at her from the side and he seems to be debating something.

The feeling in her gut pokes at her again, and she runs through her day in her mind, wondering how much she can share with him, because suddenly she's craving, _desperately_ craving the simplicity of a normal conversation with a normal human being.

A particularly loud shout startles them, and they both glance over to where two of the boys are arguing over a trading card. The situation isn't dire, however, so she turns back to him, takes a deep breath and changes the subject from the ridiculous complexity of her own life, to one that's sure to be refreshingly straightforward, at least compared to the former.

"Have you worked here long?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "No, just a few weeks now. We moved up from Hampshire in August."

She notices his choice of pronoun and before she can stop herself, she's asking, "'We?'"

"My cousin," he explains, and she thinks his eyes warm over for a moment, but she's probably imagining it. "She attends university and we share a flat."

She wants to ask him why he lives with his cousin, and how he got into teaching and whether he likes London and any number of other, simple questions that are so refreshingly uncomplicated that she feels like she can breathe for the first time in memory. She wants to ask, but at that moment there's a cry of "Rose!" from across the room, and here comes Tony again, running towards her at top speed until he pounces on her with a hug that doesn't knock her backwards only because she's had time to brace herself.

She laughs with delight and John is grinning with her as he observes, "You have an admirer," and she's not sure why she's feeling herself flush.

"Only because I buy him candy," she ruffles Tony's hair fondly, brushing off the flattery like flour off her hands.

"I rather suspect you do more than that," he remarks. "He's shared some rather intriguing stories with the class involving you."

She shifts her weight between her feet, wondering just what Tony has said about her; about his sister who's explored the stars and other planets; who's met aliens and comes from a parallel universe, and the way this man's eyes are boring into hers makes her suspect he's said a thing or two.

She needs to have a chat with him about that.

For now, though, she chooses to dodge the question. "Yeah, well he's got a pretty good imagination," she replies. It's irrelevant, but it's not a lie, so she continues fixing his gaze until Tony gives her hand a tug and she finally turns to follow. "It was nice to see you again," she bids him goodbye.

"I look forward to the next time," he replies.

As she makes her way out the door, she turns and sees him as he sits down again with his Tiddlywinks opponent, and it occurs to her just how long it's been since she last played the game.

She decides to play with Tony today.

+ - + - + - +

That day at Bad Wolf Bay – so much had been said, so much more left unspoken.

For all the times she'd replayed the first scene at that wretched place in her mind; all the times she'd mulled over what he'd almost said, dissected every nuance about him – for all of the anguish she'd endured over what hadn't been said that day – it was really the second time that was worse, with all the unspoken sentiments between the three of them that would eventually tear out her heart.

She had watched the blue box dematerialise as the duplicate stood by her side, his hand in hers. She knew he was watching her closely; studying her as she watched the Doctor – the _real_ Doctor – walk out of her life once and for all, this time by choice. Something inside her was struggling, pushing its way up and out of her, a firestorm of emotion and she wanted to cry and rage in sorrow and in anger at him.

But then the duplicate's fingers had tightened around hers, reminding her that he, at least, had spoken the words that she had longed to hear. He, at least, was willing to share his life with her, and he looked so much like the original, after all…

He had winked at her, and said "Allons-y," with a click of the tongue and a pair of playful eyes, so she had swallowed hard, forced the albatross back down deep and decided to try living the lie.

And really, it wasn't bad at first.

Actually, it was rather charming for a while – watching the delight he had taken in the new sights, sounds, tastes and sensations that came with his new, half-human body. His wonder at discovering that he rather liked liquorice, and that even pears weren't quite so distasteful any more. His fascination and joie de vivre about the tiniest details of human life; credit-card scanners, sunscreen, regional DVDs, and automatic flushing toilets all sent him off on a rant about the brilliance of watching human society develop.

And sex – oh, _that_ new sensation; the awe she could see in him when their lips touched, when her hand caressed his face, when his fingers explored her body and he felt himself respond; he was a nine-hundred-year-old soul suddenly placed in the virile body of a young human man, and he revelled in every exploration of pleasure between them.

It was getting him to stop – _that's_ where the problems began.

It wasn't that she had tired of making love with him, or doing any of the antics he was so eager to try - tasting every imaginable ethnicity of food, searching for alien sea creatures in the Thames, taking walks in the park at odd hours of the night, or sending signals to Bode's Galaxy using a homemade device constructed from hairpins and potato crisps – no, he was every bit as exciting and fun to be with as the original had been.

It's just that he refused to stop and take a rest.

Yes, occasionally he would deign to a catnap, usually following sex, although she suspected in these cases that he considered it to be more a part of the new experience of sex, rather than any real recognition of the fact that his body required rest.

And in fact, the very idea that he _did_ require more sleep was something that he steadfastly refused to concede. When she suggested otherwise, he was positively offended, as if it was an insult, a bothersome character flaw she was accusing him of.

+ - + - + - +

"Rose," he had startled her out of her slumber one time in particular, and a quick glance at the clock showed a mere forty-five minutes had passed since she had drifted off.

The room was dark, he was still lying next to her in bed, and she knew what was coming next; knew from experience that pretending to be asleep would only cause him to amplify his efforts by shaking her or biting her ear or simply pouncing on top of her. So she had sighed deeply and responded with a sleepy "Mm?"

"Rose," he was speaking over her back, propped up on an elbow as he tried to tantalise her. "Did you know that there's a creature who lives in Hyde Park with skin so luminescent it looks like it's actually made out of light from a sunset? It can only be tempted to show itself when the moon is waning, and Jupiter's moon Ganymede is transiting Europa, and even then it can only be coaxed to show itself by baiting it with tapioca."

She threw a weak smack backwards in his direction. "Need sleep," she had grumbled.

"The transit only lasts a few hours. You can sleep when we get back," he had goaded her impatiently, giving her shoulder a harder shake. "Come on – comeoncomeoncomeon," he implored, bouncing up and down on the bed as he spoke and waking her up further in the process.

"No!" she had snarled at him, having reached the limit of her patience. She sat up in bed, her heart pounding now with adrenaline and annoyance. "I'm exhausted. M'gonna get sick if I don't get some sleep. And so are you."

"I'm half Time Lord, Rose," he had reminded her for the umpteenth time. "I don't need as much sleep as you."

"You sure about that?" She had noticed his eyes looking increasingly baggy and puffy the past few days.

Suddenly he was rolling out of bed and onto his feet, and then pacing the room with excess – or, more likely, borrowed – energy. "Doesn't it drive you mad?" he had demanded. "Wasting all those hours in sleep? Such short, human lives and you still spend a full third of it unconscious. There's a star going supernova near Centaurus A, there's a lunar eclipse visible in Stockholm, there's a new breed of fungus evolving in Lima, Peru that will one day cure most varieties of influenza and Mark Shapcott picks up a basketball for the first time today – one day he'll go on to break five separate world records for points scored – don't you want to go see?" He bounced on the balls of his feet impatiently.

"Next time," she had said in a voice of quiet steel before lying down again under the covers. "Go without me if you want." She had shut her eyes and listened to him, trying to stifle the sound of her own breathing as she listened for his. Finally she heard him exhale, and then came the sound of his footsteps as he left the room.

A few minutes later, she heard the click of the door closing and she knew he'd gone.

Of course, she couldn't get back to sleep afterwards.

This had continued with him for upwards of a month, and by this time she knew he was lying about not needing the sleep; knew his body was dragging, in the way he slumped every time he sat down; the way he refused to sit for more than a few minutes at a time; she could see it in the dark circles under his eyes and the way he spoke with even more nonsensical meandering than usual.

It had all culminated one night at one of Mum and Pete's parties – an outdoor affair celebrating some sort of product launch at Vitex Industries. By this time, the Doctor had discovered the energising properties of caffeine, and for the first hour or so of the event he had bounded about like a madman, shaking the hands of the Vitex employees and just generally charming the socks off of each and every one of them with his charisma and flawlessly targeted flattery.

Then things had taken a turn for the worse.

His prattle with the guests began to take dizzying twists and turns, starting innocently enough with the nutritional content of the Vitex product, but then veering off into such topics as the development of ceramic glazes during the Tang Dynasty in China, and the censorship debate surrounding the Smothers Brothers in 1968.

Rose had been trying to distract him and get him alone for some time, but finally the call came to sit down for supper and she hoped the seat and the food would help to slow down his mania a bit.

And indeed he had quieted down as he began eating his meal, but they had barely started on the second course when he had thrown a woozy look in her direction, turned, and vomited on his neighbour, an unsuspecting administrative assistant by the name of Suzy.

Two minutes later, Rose had him in the loo, hunched over the toilet as he emptied the remainder of his stomach, all the while moaning like a five-year-old.

Thirty minutes later she'd got him home and put to bed, where he stayed for a full five days, getting up only to address his most basic physical necessities.

Afterwards, it was much easier to convince him of the need for regular sleep, but she knew he still resented it.

She was only just beginning to grasp the scope of the responsibility she faced.

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3: Complications and Coffee

Chapter 3: Complications and Coffee

+ - + - + - +

The following Tuesday it's sunny and warm at the schoolyard and Tony is in the middle of a game of football with a group of other seven-year-olds when she arrives, so she stands by the sidelines and chats with John.

The conversation flows light and easy with the warm sun and gentle breeze as they comment on the game and on the events of the day; the weather, the latest political campaign finance scandal that's in the news, the nasty noise her car is making, the project he's got his class working on.

They watch the game and it gets him started talking about his students: apparently Richard has a particularly vivid imagination, Emily is showing an aptitude for maths, and her brother seems quite keen on science.

This piques her curiosity and gets her thinking. "Have you ever had a student," she asks him, "who was just really incredible? Gifted, like you just know that someday they're going to win a Nobel Prize, or break the light barrier, or do something totally groundbreaking?"

He nods knowingly and says something about "Adric," but at that moment her mobile rings and she holds up a finger to him to wait while she answers the call.

The woman on the other end speaks, and her entire world changes.

A moment later, she's hanging up after, inexplicably, _thanking_ the woman for this news; news that seems to be stopping time itself because somehow everything around her has frozen, her body has frozen except for her heart which seems to be pounding its way out of her chest, up into her throat which is already too tight to give her the air she needs. She can't breathe, can't think, and everything in and around her is imploding.

She feels a hand on her shoulder and warm breath is on her face as he speaks her name. "Rose?" he prods, his voice rough with concern. "What is it? Are you all right?"

She realises her eyes are closed, so she opens them and she's at the school, children's voices are all around her and he's facing her, all windblown hair and face creased with worry and something about the unfamiliarity centres her, brings her back to here and now.

"I'm OK," she chokes out as she reaches into her handbag with one hand to search for her keys, and her other hand fumbles idiotically as if she can only control one of them at a time. Her mobile tumbles to the ground, and she stoops over to pick it up, but he beats her to it, gives it to her and wraps his hands around hers, and with a gentle tug, he's leading her around a bend into a secluded corner behind the school building. It's an alcove sheltered by brick on two sides, trees on a third, and it offers at least the illusion of privacy.

"What's wrong?" he asks, ducking his face down into hers, both hands firmly gripping her shoulders. "Is someone hurt?"

She leans back against the brick for support, resting her head against the wall. "No," she replies, and gives an ironic laugh. "Injury, death, _that_ I can handle. Slitheen and black holes and Cybermen – the end of the universe – I've seen it all and it's nothing. But _this_," the words catch in her throat and one sob leads to another and she's shielding her eyes from him as the tears begin to flow freely, but then his arms are encircling her and she's lost completely as she cries into his shoulder.

"I'm pregnant," she finally speaks the words by way of explanation, of apology to this stranger who's volunteered to shoulder her burden.

A bird flutters above them in the sunny treetops, while she's pressed back firmly in the shadow the building casts on itself and she shivers in his grasp. He holds her like that for a time until her sobs quiet, and when they do there's embarrassment and dread in their place because she knows what's coming next.

He strokes her hair reassuringly and speaks softly into her ear. "I know it's hard to imagine now, Rose, but this is not a tragedy." He pulls back to look at her, his eyes asking the question before his mouth forms the words. "The father?"

She shakes her head. "Gone."

She feels him tense up with all the wrong assumptions; assumptions that she doesn't have the energy to correct, and she certainly doesn't owe him an explanation anyway. Yet part of her wants to give him one and she's not certain why, but then again she's not certain of anything right now except that this is the wrong place and the wrong time to be having this conversation, and he's certainly not the right person to be having it with.

Everything is wrong and it's never going to be right again.

She shrugs away from his grasp, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, as she looks up and over in every direction except his. "M'sorry," she says into her own shoulder as she looks back over it. She turns to leave. "I'm fine. It's not your problem anyway."

"Rose," comes his voice from behind her and it's not sharp but something in it makes her stop. "Rose, you have nothing to apologise for."

She throws a half-hearted smile of thanks in his direction and this seems to encourage him. because he grins back at her and adds, "Except perhaps that comment about slithering into black holes; I think perhaps an explanation there might be warranted."

She laughs in spite of herself. "Not today," she defers.

"Long story?" he surmises with one eyebrow raised knowingly.

She nods, and suddenly remembering where she is, she turns back in the direction of the schoolyard in search of her brother. "Tony – I need to..."

She feels his hand on her arm, and she jumps with a gasp that shows both of them just how tightly wound she is.

But he doesn't flinch; doesn't back away; he simply maintains the contact as she turns back to face him. "Tony's fine," he assures her calmly. "There's two other staff supervising pickup and I'll be back shortly. Rose, would you care to meet me for coffee later?"

The invitation surprises her, confuses her and she stares back at him in speechless bewilderment. If he had done this ten minutes earlier, she would've known what he meant, and she would've known her response, but now...

Her puzzlement must be evident on her face because he lifts his hand off her arm. "Just to talk," he says, searching her face for a response before adding, "I thought you might be in need of a sympathetic ear."

Defensiveness wells up inside her and she takes a step backwards. "I've got people to talk to – I've got friends," she shoots back with more resentment than she'd intended.

"I never thought otherwise," his calm absorbing her vacillations like a ground wire. "We can talk about whatever you like. You can tell me some of those long stories of yours. I just thought it might be nice to spend some time in the company of someone new. For both of us," he adds. "It can be refreshing to get a new perspective sometimes."

He says it with no pity, only warmth and good intentions that disarm her and she feels the defensiveness melt away.

"OK," she agrees and now her smile is small and tentative, but it's genuine.

+ - + - + - +

Somehow, she makes it through the afternoon.

It's all homework and checkers with Tony and the news is there constantly in her mind, loud background noise like a thrash-metal band playing, but she pushes it aside, refusing to contemplate thoughts, decisions and conversations that she's not ready to face yet.

+ - + - + - +

By the time she shows up at the coffee shop, the embarrassment has found her and she's fully mortified at the thought of her behaviour earlier.

She spots him at a table in the rear and steers in his direction. He greets her with a wave as he gets to his feet to pull a chair out for her.

The old-fashioned gesture makes her smile, and he sees the grin as he sits back down and gazes back questioningly.

She shakes her head with a tiny laugh. "It's nothing, I'm just not used to..." she pauses in search of a word that won't give the wrong impression until she realises it doesn't exist.

"Manners?" he supplies.

She laughs. "You're definitely not rude, I'll give you that." Her eyes blink back memories from another life and another world, before focusing back in on his.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks, and that's when she knows for sure that this was a pity offer and she can't believe her life has come to this.

"I'm fine," she replies and looks up at him resolutely. "Look, I wanted to thank you for being so understanding earlier, and I really appreciate this," She motions to indicate their surroundings. "But I'm all right now, really. I don't need you to look out for me, I'm not suicidal or anything. I'll handle it."

He leans back in his chair with a sigh and folds his arms over his chest and for the first time, she senses chagrin in him. "You think I did this out of pity?"

"Didn't you?" she asks, though his question has already given her the answer, she just doesn't understand the reason.

"Well," he explains in the pedantic manner of a philosophy professor reasoning his way through an argument, "pity would imply that I invited you out purely for your own good and I'm not getting anything out of the arrangement." He sits forward and taps his fingers on the table. "And while I certainly don't wish to appear selfish here, I must point out that I'm sitting here, enjoying the company of a lovely, bright and exciting woman and I fail to see how that could possibly be construed as charity on _my_ part."

The flattery brings a flush to her face, and though her most logical self suspects that something still doesn't quite add up, the twitch of his brow and the sincerity of his smile somehow fill in the missing factor.

She presses her lips together and smiles back.

"All right, then," he announces, placing his hands on the table and getting to his feet, "What can I get for you?"

She requests a coffee and a cookie and he goes to the service counter to place the order.

She gets out her mobile while she waits, pages through her messages until he returns a short time later with the coffees. "Thank you," she says as he sits back down and she sips her drink, feeling the warmth spread through her. She sets the cup back on the saucer and picks at an indentation in the table.

He looks at her, studies her, and she's lost for words and that's when the realisation hits her that she has no idea how to talk to normal human beings any more.

Mercifully, he speaks up. "So tell me, Rose Tyler, what do you do when you're not picking your brother up from school?"

It's a simple enough question; she knows he's only making small talk, trying to be friendly but she doesn't know how to respond. She's not nearly to the point where she's ready to tell him the truth, yet she's surprised when her mouth fails to form the words of a lie. "Erm – research," she finally settles on vaguely, punctuating the statement with a sip of coffee. Then she adds, "Security," and immediately regrets it because she's only made her reply that much more inscrutable. She takes another sip and stares at the couple seated at the table behind him.

He doesn't press. "Do you enjoy it?" he asks.

Her eyes find him again. "My mate Mickey got me into it back when I first came – first came here. It was really the only choice I had, the only thing I was suited for at that point. I would've gone mad otherwise." She shudders at the memory of a disappearing mirage on a Norwegian beach. Without Mickey, without Torchwood, she doesn't know what she would've done. "I had a project I needed to work on and they let me do it," she adds.

He nods. "Sounds like a perfect situation. Was your project a success?"

"Yes," she confirms. Sighs. "And no. I found what I was looking for, I suppose. Then I lost it again." She's well practised in not talking about him – the first _him_, the fully alien _him_, whose very existence and memory had become an albatross in her life, so she quickly moves on. "That's when I met him," she adds, and now she's referring to the _other_ him.

He was always the other one.

Apparently, she's decided she's ready to talk about it.

She knows he's as good as his word and he's not going to bring it up or draw her out in any way, and somehow that very fact makes her want to bring it up. Because he was right – she needs to talk about it and a fresh perspective may be just the right thing for her.

He sips his coffee, and gazes at her expectantly, patiently, and she knows he's waiting to see if she'll continue.

"We split up about a month ago," she offers slowly, starting with the mundane facts as she takes a bite of her cookie and chews slowly.

"How long were you together?"

"About a year," she replies and now all the easy details have been covered. "But before him there was – just so much – and I never quite knew..." she knows she's talking nonsense so she pauses and breathes deeply, trying to form a complete sentence. "I don't know what we were thinking. He wasn't built for this sort of life." Something rises up in her gut and she chokes it back down, chasing it with a sip of coffee.

He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Do you know where he is?" he asks gently.

"No," she shakes her head. "But I've got his number."

"Have you called him yet? To tell him?"

"No." She squeezes her eyes shut and feels her fist clench, and she thumps it on the table. "It's just..." she lets out a growl of frustration. "I told him to leave, I _made_ him leave and now I'm supposed to just pick up the phone and call him back here? I don't want him involved, I can't drag him into this, there's no telling how he'll handle it or what he'll do."

John's eyes widen in fury. "You're afraid of him? Did he hurt you?"

"No!" Her face is in her hands now and she doesn't think she's ever been quite so frustrated in her life. "If I tell him, he'll insist on coming back and being involved in it all." It sounds ridiculous, she knows; this ought to be a good thing, and John has no idea, no concept of the disaster that it would bring.

But he misreads her unease and she's almost glad of it. "Rose," he informs her patiently, "You do know that you don't actually have to be _with_ him, don't you? He can be involved with the child and not with you?"

She sighs. "I can't ask him to come back. I can't make him stay. Not for me, not for the child. He just – he can't live that life. He died a little bit every day we were together. He tried to hide it, but I always knew. I can't do that to him."

"You still love him." It's not a question, but it's not really a statement either. It almost sounds like a challenge, like he's daring her to deny it.

She's never been one for dares, though. Her eyes fall closed and a response slips out of her mouth; not a contradiction exactly; it's honesty, unedited and unexpected. It's what she hasn't realised until this very moment. "I don't know if I ever did. I never really knew who he was."

She looks down and stirs her coffee, so that his reply is heard and not seen. "Rose, whoever he is, he's a grown man. He can make his own decisions. You're not responsible for him."

Right there, right with those words he's struck a nerve. She feels like he's addressing her like a child, and it raises her hackles; turns her frustration into ire because he's _wrong_; he's _so_ wrong. She _is_ responsible for him; she's been responsible for him ever since the real Doctor dropped them off at Bad Wolf Bay, and this is just another reminder of how much she's failed him.

Failed both of them.

Her spoon clinks as she lays it down and gives him an icy stare. "You don't understand," she says in a way that means the conversation is over.

He doesn't let it drop, though, and it's not because he missed her cue. "He has a right to know," he insists with infuriating calmness.

"You _don't_ understand," she repeats. They're going in circles now and she needs to put an end to it. She needs to wipe that look of cool assuredness off his face, so she rises to her feet and grits her jaw as she looks down at him. "It's between me and him and it's none of your business," she hisses, and she's rewarded when he draws back.

With that, she turns and stalks out.

_tbc_


	4. 4: Domestics and the Dimension Cannon

He's in Boston the first time he notices it.

There's a section of South Boston where the gaseous waste from a toxic dump site combines with just the right amount of salt air, so that when the star Canopus lines up perfectly with Aldebaran, if a person has the proper monitoring equipment they can pick up broadcasts from Planetary Broadcasting Network #638 on the planet Fhloston.

The proper monitoring equipment, however, requires a transistor radio, an omnidirectional amplitude oscillator, and a large nugget of cubic zirconia. He has none of these on hand, so he's recruited the help of two MIT physicists by the name of Rodney and Vladimir.

Truth be told, it's an almost entirely useless endeavour, but as it involves interplanetary communication, it's easy to pique the interest of the humans, eager as they always are to learn anything they can about alien life and technology.

Besides, having watched almost everything – and everyone - useful in his life either fail or walk away from him, this is the best he can come up with these days.

So now he's scrambling over a ginormous trash heap towards the spot that they've triangulated as being optimal to receive the signal. The two bookish, bespectacled and rather unkempt academics in his company are struggling to find their footing and to breathe the unprocessed, unfiltered and unsavoury-smelling air of the outside world, and he's finding himself mildly amused at the sight of their discomfort when he feels a tiny prick at his neck.

He slaps at it and tries to recall if it's mosquito season in New England right now.

And that's when Time freezes.

It happens so fast that it's almost imperceptible – it _is_ imperceptible to the humans who are with him; this momentary suspension of Time that's over in the blink of an eye, and when it resumes, everything picks up right where it had left off with no harm done.

He rubs a hand on his cheek and looks around him, bewildered.

But then Rodney calls to him to come help him set up the oscillator, so he shakes off the confusion, chalks it up to fatigue and dulled half-human preceptors, and leaves it at that.

+ - + - + - +

Having a baby – you don't get much more domestic than that.

The irony of it all is almost too much for her. She's come full circle from the day she met him in the basement of the London shop and run away with him. She thought she was escaping all this, but somehow, somewhere along the way everything got twisted inside-out. The more she tried to hold onto him and find a better life, the harder the forces of the universe seemed to conspire to force her back down into an ordinary one.

And now she's dragging him into it along with her and there's nothing she can do about it.

It's 9:00 in the evening, less than an hour after she's left John in the coffee shop, and she's in her office at Torchwood because she's not ready to go home to the emptiness and _sameness_ of her flat. She's not ready to be alone with her thoughts; alone to contemplate the apology that she knows she owes John, and the phone call to the Doctor that she can't bring herself to make.

Even though she knows John was right; she needs to do it.

So she's at work, in search of a distraction. She checks in on the Weevils in the holding cells below, and she knocks on Jake's office door, but he's gone home for the evening.

She sticks her head into Research Laboratory #9 and gazes at the Dimension Cannon; the device that she knows will never work again and only worked in the first place because the Daleks were collapsing the dimensions.

She thinks it might be time to approve its dismantling once and for all, so she finds Pete's office to discuss the matter, but he's gone home as well.

So she returns to her office and writes him an email about it, then proceeds to comb through the rest of her unread messages.

And she's alone with her thoughts; there's no avoiding it.

+ - + - + - +

"I have decided," the Doctor had announced one day as he sat in her office, feet propped up on her desk, "that I need a name." He retrieved a macadamia nut from the container in his hand and tossed it into his mouth.

Rose was sitting at her desk, hunched over as she examined an item that had the appearance of a fist-sized stone. She paused long enough to glance up at him. "A what?" she asked, reaching over to help herself to some nuts before returning her attention to the object.

"A name," he repeated, landing his feet on the floor and standing up. "Something distinguished. Something that says 'now here's a man who's _more_ than just charm and a pretty face. A man of reason, a man of learning, but still open to the more proletarian pursuits in life. An everyman, equally at home with presidents and kings as well as the lowliest migrant worker and toilet-scrubber." He paused and ran a hand through his hair. "No insurance executives, though. Nor people wanting to borrow money."

"You've already got a name," she replied calmly, turning her attention back to the stone in her hands as she leaned over it with a magnifying glass.

"No I haven't," he protested as he paced back and forth behind her chair. "'Doctor' is not a name, it's a title. An appellation. A sobriquet."

His failure to point out that it wasn't _his_ title did not go unnoticed by Rose.

"It's certainly not distinctive, in any case," he continued without a pause. "I mean, with a _brilliant_ mind like mine, not to mention unparalleled raw sex appeal so notorious that I've had communications from the planet Eros III about the possibility of copying and synthesising my pheromones for resale. Seriously, Johnny Depp _wishes_ he had a fraction of my magnetism, and I hardly think 'Doctor' does me justice, do you? Who talks about one of the greatest minds of our time, 'Doctor'? Or the sexiest man alive, 'Doctor'? No, I need something much more venerable. Something like 'Augustus' or 'Agamemnon.'"

She laid the magnifying glass down on the desk and looked up at him, her chin propped under her hand, held up by her elbow on the desk. "You seriously want me to call you 'Agamemnon'?," she asked. "What happened to 'John Smith'?"

He waved a hand at her dismissively. "Too dull. If it's something I'm going to have to listen to for decades on end, I want something more notable."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "But seriously - 'Agamemnon?'"

He gestured towards himself invitingly. "Come on – just give it a try. Use it in a sentence."

She let her chin slide off her hand, and her head sagged forward. "OK, how about this?" she offered, looking up to meet his gaze and putting on her cheerful voice. "Agamemnon, can you please order some takeout?"

His face fell. "Oh."

"Oh," she agreed with a nod.

He turned to look out the window and she watched him as he gazed out into the distance. He had a day's worth of stubble on his face and there was a lingering redness around his nose from the cold he'd had the week before and something tugged at her, flipped inside-out turning vacuity into awareness.

She sighed. "You could always shorten it. What about 'Aggie'?"

He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "I suppose we could give it a try. Take it out for a test drive, as it were."

"OK," she agreed.

Pete chose that moment to enter the room with a distinctly grim set to his jaw. He had some test results with him that confirmed their worst fears: the rock that Rose was examining was not, in fact, a rock, but rather a piece of alien junk; a castoff from a Gluphagian ship. The Gluphagians were known throughout the galaxy as being the most consumer-driven, consumption-crazed race around and were always in search of new, cost-effective planets on which to dump their refuse.

It seemed that Earth was scheduled to become the next Gluphagian junkyard.

"It's against galactic law to dump rubbish on an inhabited planet," Aggie explained, plopping himself back down in his chair and tapping his fingers on the desk. "Unfortunately, the Gluphagians have become rather sloppy about checking for life before dumping. My guess is that they did a cursory test of the atmosphere, detected the various pollutants – mercury, chlorine, sulphur – and concluded that all life here must be extinct. Terribly shoddy work, I assure you. Unfortunately, unless the penalties for unsafe dumping are increased considerably, they're not likely to stop any time soon."

"So we just need to send them a signal?" Pete offered. "Let them know we're here? Will that get them to stop?"

Aggie shook his head. "Standard radio communications aren't going to work with the Gluphagians. They're an absurdly xenophobic race, notoriously difficult to get in touch with." He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms over his chest. "Last I heard, they were using encrypted duodynetic pulses for communication." He trailed off thoughtfully, slowly rotating his chair back and forth as he pondered.

Rose and Pete waited.

Finally he spoke. "If we could generate a concentrated pan-dimensional pulse they should be able to pick it up. They won't understand it, but they'll at least take it as a handshake, which is all we really need here."

Pete clasped his hands together and leaned forward. "All right then, what do you need to make it happen?"

"Well," Aggie replied, sending a probing stare over at Rose, "A simple overload to the Dimension Cannon would do it quite nicely."

Rose felt her eyes widen and her heart stopped as he gazed at her expectantly. "Overload it?" she asked.

He nodded. "Give it a nice thermal boost, clear the area about, oh, ten metres away, bit of a bang and it's done."

Pete nodded. "Well then, let's have at it."

"Only problem is you'll destroy the cannon in the process," Aggie added, one eyebrow arched as he regarded her so intently, so carefully.

Rose felt her brow furrow as she threw him a questioning look. He rolled his eyes with a sigh. "The only other option would be to construct another pan-dimensional probe." He shrugged. "It could be done. About four days' work, I'd estimate."

"Then let's do it," she replied. "It's only four days, they haven't started dumping in earnest yet – it's not worth sacrificing the cannon if there's another option."

His face clouded over and she knew this was not the response he'd hoped for from her. "You're planning on using it again soon?" he shot at her pointedly.

He was missing the point. "I don't know," she replied with steel in her tone. "But it took months – _years_ to build and I'm not gonna just blow it up at the drop of a hat." She threw a glance over at Pete who suddenly looked very busy paging through messages on his mobile, before turning back to him and lowering her voice. "It brought us together, didn't it?"

He sighed. "Rose, it _doesn't work_. It's never going to work again."

"You don't know that." She reached out to take his hand. "Think about it – what if we _could_ get it to work?"

He gritted his teeth and looked away, and it almost hurt, physically hurt her to see him react this way, because she'd seen him stealing glances up at the nighttime sky; she'd seen the longing in him, and the effort he put into hiding it from her. She knew how desperately he wanted to get out there again, yet that need was being completely overridden by something else right now.

"We could go _anywhere_," she insisted, trying to tempt him, to show him his assumptions were all wrong. "Don't you even want to try? I know you're dying to get out there again. I've seen that look in your eyes – I know staying here is driving you mad. Do you really want to sacrifice the one thing that could possibly take us away and let us travel again?"

He sighed and his shoulders sagged as he rocked back and forth in his seat, and she wasn't sure if he was agreeing with her or merely placating her, but he finally said, "All right."

She would show him, she resolved. She would prove it to him; this wasn't about getting back, it was about reclaiming the choices that had been taken from them. The possibilities were infinite, and going back was only one of the many. And quite honestly, it was too much, too huge of a prospect for her to give it much consideration anyway.

Really, she wasn't sure why he was getting so touchy about it when she had every reason to have all the same concerns about him.

But now certainly wasn't the time to be getting into it, so she got out her pen, poised to go to work and turned her attention to the matter at hand and the men sitting across from her. "All right, what do we need to get started?"

+ - + - + - +

In the end, it was a week before the probe was ready. By that time, the Gluphagian dumping had commenced in earnest over the southernmost portion of Ealing but they were able to evacuate the area with only minor injuries to a few dozen people before the communiqué was finally sent and the dumping halted once and for all.

The Dimension Cannon remained intact.

+ - + - + - +

When she arrives at school the following Tuesday, John is applying a bandage to the knee of a boy about ten years old, so he doesn't see her approach, doesn't notice her until she's standing over him. When he finally hears her, he looks up with a toss of his head and squints into the sun to welcome her with an unassuming smile.

He turns back to the boy and finishes the bandaging job. "Off you go," he says and then he's standing up to face her. His hair is hanging loose today and it skirts the collar of his shirt when he moves, the breeze sending it to touch at his lips as he speaks.

She's holding a crumpled paper bag in her hand and she extends her arm, offering it to him with eyebrows raised hopefully. "For you," she explains. "I hope you like chocolate."

He takes the bag from her, opens it and looks inside. "What's this for?" he asks as he removes a piece and takes a bite.

"Peace offering," she replies and waves him away as he tries to share it with her. "I'm sorry about the other day."

He scoffs like she's being ridiculous. "There's really no need," he says with a shake of his head.

"No, I am," she presses, reaching out to grasp his arm in order to drive her point home. "You were just trying to do something nice and I really appreciate it because I probably needed the sympathetic ear more than I realised, and then I went and bit your head off. It was uncalled-for."

"It was perfectly understandable given the circumstances and it's already forgotten," he assures her as he waves the bag at her again. "Now please have some; there's no joy in eating alone."

She smiles and lets go of his arm, takes a morsel from the bag and bites down, tasting the sweet creaminess as it spreads on her tongue. Then she opens her mouth to speak, ready with an anecdote about the elderly gentleman from the candy shop where she bought the chocolates, but just then Tony appears, interrupting to say that he's left a book inside that he needs tonight, so John sends him back in to get it.

He turns back, shielding his eyes from the sun as he scans through the children playing in the schoolyard. "How are you?" he asks casually.

"I'm fine," she replies, meaning to leave it at that, but then there's silence and there's space between them and the breeze gives her a chill, so she goes on. "I've seen a doctor, she gave me a mile-long list of do's and don'ts. Everything looks fine so far." She reaches for another chocolate, taking the bag from him and pretending to study its contents closely. "I haven't called him yet, but you were right. I need to." She lifts her head, closes her eyes with a tiny shake of her head before opening them again. "I will."

"You'll be fine," he encourages, accepting the bag back from her.

"Thanks," she says and turns to leave. "I should go find Tony."

He bids her goodbye with a nod and a wave, and she starts towards the building but then the impulse strikes and she whirls back around and speaks to his back before he has a chance to escape. "Do you like Alfred Hitchcock?" she asks.

He turns back to face her with something approaching a sneer. "Not a bit," he replies. "The man was a recluse with a filthy temper."

She feels a look of puzzlement cross her face and somehow this clarifies something for him because he nods. "That's what I've heard anyway, but of course you're talking about his films, are you not?"

She nods in return. "There's a film festival this weekend – _North by Northwest_ is playing Saturday night." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "I thought maybe – would you like to come with me? Just as friends," she adds, feeling the need to clarify, though she seriously doubts he'd ever consider anything else with a woman in her situation.

"Rose Tyler, I'd be delighted," he replies, and the simple ease of his smile is like the warm sun after a long, cold night.

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5: Puccini and Ponderance

**Chapter 5:**** Puccini and Ponderance**

+ - + - + - +

He falls asleep in the cinema.

She's so engrossed in the film that she doesn't notice his slumped head and heavy breathing until about halfway through. When she does, she gives a gentle nudge to his shoulder, but all it accomplishes is to get him to shift his weight away from her in the seat, and he promptly falls back asleep.

So she gives up and lets him sleep, and when the movie ends and the lights come on, she tucks her tongue between her teeth and grins devilishly at his foggy expression as his eyes flutter open.

But then her breath catches for a moment because she's looking into those eyes, unfocused and confused and so _very_ blue, and she sees something else. It hints at a vastness hidden behind, like the blue of the daytime sky hides all of space and it lasts for the briefest of moments before he gives a start and shakes his head with the realisation of where he is. "Oh, goodness me Rose, I'm terribly sorry."

"Sorry for what?" she asks teasingly as she gets to her feet. "You only snored a little."

"My sleep has been dreadful lately," he confesses, still apologising. "Obviously it's finally caught up with me." He climbs to his feet and together they weave their way between the seats towards the exit.

There's a backlog of people moving slowly out the door and he steps aside as they reach the aisle, lets her go first, guiding her with a light touch to the small of her back.

She throws a knowing look back at him. "Yeah, but you weren't enjoying it to begin with, were you?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "What makes you say that?"

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, I don't know, maybe the impatient sigh you let out when you sat down may have clued me in? I could see the hair on the person in front of you blowing in the breeze, it was so strong."

He laughs sheepishly as they move slowly to the door. "Guilty as charged, I suppose. I normally watch very little in the way of television or movies. Always seems a terrible waste of time."

They reach the door and exit out to the pavement where the cool autumn air is busy with the sounds and smells of the city on a Saturday night. Her car is parked to her right, but she's not ready to go home yet, so she pauses and spins slowly round on her toes to face him. "How about a little late-night window shopping? Is that a waste of time?" She nods to her left where the streets are full of pedestrians and shops blazing with light and life.

"In the company of a friend? Not a bit," he agrees.

So she grins and slips her arm under his, linking their elbows as they stroll leisurely towards the centre of activity. They walk in shared silence, taking in the sights around them until she finds her eyes drawn back to him, to the loose curls that brush his shoulders as he gazes about; to his straight nose and sharp eyes as they register the goings-on around them.

"How old are you?" she asks suddenly.

"Miss Tyler, that's a rather impertinent question," he teases.

"Only for a woman. I'm twenty-eight, by the way."

The sound of music playing in the distance catches his attention and he turns, searches for it as he mumbles the beginnings of a response. "Nine…erm…" he fumbles. He locates sight of a violinist playing on a street corner up ahead, and then turns back to her. "Thirty-seven," he replies finally. "I'll be thirty-eight next month."

"And how long have you been teaching?" she asks. She glances to the side as she catches sight of a dress in the window of a boutique, considers stopping but the soulful tune of the street performer reaches a peak, beckons to them, and he steers them towards it.

"About six years," he replies. "I've worked here and there; I was at a school in Hampshire last year."

"How did you end up here?"

"My cousin," he replies. "Charlotte – Charley – she's had a rather difficult time of it at home. Dreadfully strict parents; she's been terribly sheltered. They've really done her quite a disservice because now she's just so unschooled about many aspects of modern life. She finally rebelled and ran away – ended up getting in a car crash with some rather dodgy characters. I'm just glad I was there to help her out or there's no telling…" he trails off with a sigh and a shake of his head.

"That's horrible," she says. They've almost reached the violinist and the crowd is getting thicker as they weave their way to the corner.

"Oh, Charley's a fighter," he shrugs. "She'll do just fine for herself. Anyway, she wanted to go to university in London so I looked for a job in the area, and here we are."

"Here you are," she agrees happily.

The violinist finishes the song as they arrive and the crowd disperses, allowing them to move to the front as the musician launches into another tune. This time it's a slow, haunting melody that soars above the pulsing activity, tinges everything around them with its sorrow and despair and makes their surroundings feel like a scene from a movie.

She looks over at him and he's transfixed, his brow creased as if he's thinking hard, his knuckle touching his lips thoughtfully. "I know this," he says, his words more breath than substance. "This melody – it's Puccini." He turns to her. "I've heard it in my dreams. There was a man – dark hair and a moustache, a cigar in his hand, and melodies on his lips that would make angels weep."

"No wonder you're not sleeping," she observes.

"Indeed," he agrees. "I have these dreams nearly every night; amazing, fantastical, colossal dreams of people and places and terrifying creatures, and it feels like my brain is exploding out of my head, or my body is exploding out of this very life. Fire, infernos; chaos and mayhem, terror and excitement and joy – oh, the joy and exhilaration is incredible, I can't even begin to tell you, it's just…" he trails off, breathless as the music soars to a peak.

"Bigger on the inside?" she murmurs softly.

He turns to her with an intake of breath, eyes wide, and he's shocked, like she's read his mind or touched his soul with the very secrets that all beings keep hidden deep down, and she's left feeling like an intruder.

But then the moment passes, his expression passes, giving way to one of confusion as if he were trying to recall something that had just slipped his mind; as if waking from a dream and feeling the shaky, false dreamscape giving way to the firmer ground of reality, and he nods slowly. "I wake up and everything is small, constricting and I can't breathe and I can't think." He takes a deep breath as something tightly wound in him relaxes, before laughing weakly. "Makes it hard to get back to sleep, anyway."

Their eyes are linked and her voice feels so small as she replies, "I know exactly what you mean," and she's realising – slowly but surely – that she doesn't need a TARDIS to find monsters to fight or adventures to be had; she only needs to look a little deeper.

The music ends, and they walk some more, wandering past more boutiques and jewellery shops, food vendors and music stores until they come upon a dank, dusty old bookstore that sells used volumes. He's searching for a first-edition copy of _Oliver Twist_ and the intensity with which he combs through each shelf, the excitement he displays periodically upon finding other favourite tomes is so infectious she thinks they might as well be searching for the Holy Grail itself. She laughs at his giddiness and they flip through the books and read passages to each other in mock voices and an hour and a half later her sides are sore from laughter and she's the proud owner of a hardcover copy of _Jane Eyre _that she can't believe she's actually interested in reading.

But she is, and after he walks her back to her car and bids her goodnight, she drives home and curls up in bed with the book. Quickly, she's engrossed, and she reads straight through to chapter 4 before she puts it aside and turns out the light.

She falls asleep with a smile and has her first truly restful night's sleep in ages.

+ - + - + - +

On her better days when they had been together, she would find herself studying him with honest curiosity. When he would do unexpected things like letting his beard grow or dressing in jeans or announcing that he wanted to learn to paint, she'd smile and listen to him, and she'd try to get to know him for who he really was.

And sometimes he'd show her that he just might be worth the effort.

His relationship with Tony was one such instance.

Tony, of course, had heard stories about the Doctor almost from the day he was born, and that fateful day six years later when she brought his duplicate home to stay and to meet her little brother, the boy was almost as excited about it as she was.

Of course he was in complete awe of this man he'd heard endless tales about for his entire short life; tales of travelling through space and time and fighting monsters and demons. As he gazed up at the suit-and-trainer-clad man, his eyes widened, his mouth closed, and he shrunk back from him in fearful wonder.

But then the Doctor clicked his tongue and winked at the boy as he bent down to shake his hand. "Tony my boy," he greeted him, pumping his hand up and down vigorously. "I understand you're quite the expert on Spiderman, is that true? Because I've really been wondering about those webs that he can shoot from his wrists – how does he do that?"

Something lit up in Tony's eyes as he offered an eager reply, and the two of them disappeared up to the boy's bedroom for the next two hours.

They became fast friends.

As went everything in his life, the Doctor was somewhat erratic when it came to his biggest fan. Common etiquette and the niceties of things like Tony's birthday, Christmas, or school performances were often forgotten, or took a back seat to whatever alien or extraterrestrial pursuit he happened to be engaged in at the time. But he always made up for it with a gift or a story or simply time spent at a later date, and for Tony, this more than compensated for all his absences, because in his eyes, the Doctor could do absolutely no wrong.

Rose would watch them together and something would tug at her, something basic and instinctual and completely unfamiliar and unexpected concerning this particular man.

And it was wonderful.

+ - + - + - +

But then there were other times that his dizzying shifts would completely throw her for a loop.

One night, she had awakened to find him sitting up in bed next to her.

"Doctor?" she whispered in the dark.

He was currently trying on the name of 'Randolph' for size, but as this was his third name in two months, she was finding it increasingly hard to keep up. To be sure, 'Doctor' still tripped up her tongue a little when she used it, but it was the easiest of the choices she had.

She turned onto her back to look up at him from behind. She could just make out his silhouette in the dark; could just see the way he was clutching at his chest with one hand, measuring his every breath deliberately, as if he had to think about it; as if not thinking about it might make it cease.

"Doctor, are you all right?"

He didn't reply and she wondered if he could still somehow be in some state of sleep, but something about the way he held himself, the rigidity of his shoulders indicated otherwise. "Doctor?" she asked again, louder this time.

"So fragile," he murmured. "One heart."

He spoke so quietly that the words were hard to make out even in the silent darkness. There was a slight slur to his speech but when she sat up and saw his face full of foreboding and death, she knew he hadn't been drinking.

She touched a finger to his brow, traced it through his hair.

"You humans – such tiny, short lives you have," he spoke in a hollow voice.

She laid a kiss on his shoulder before placing her chin there. "We've got years –decades still. There's so much more for us to do."

"All those times," he breathed as if he hadn't heard her. "All those times I was ready to give up my life, thinking I was going to die – occasionally I even wanted it, but I never _really_ thought about it. Never expected it really could end."

"It's not over yet," she insisted, reaching up to turn his face to hers. "It's not over, and we're gonna make the most of it, yeah?"

His eyes fell closed and he gave a weak smile.

"Come on," she tugged him back down into bed and snuggled up next to him, wrapping him with her warmth. "Let's try and get some sleep." She ran her fingers through his hair, laid gentle, soothing caresses down his face, his arms, his chest, and a short time later his breathing slowed and deepened, telling her he was asleep.

+ - + - + - +

The next morning, he claimed no memory of the previous night's exchange, but she didn't believe him.

She especially didn't believe him when two days later he decided to accompany her on her morning jog, citing a desire to get in shape.

"Doctor, you're already skin and bones," she objected.

"Randolph," he corrected her.

She sighed. "Either way, if you lose any weight at all, you're going to disappear completely."

"Nonsense," he denied. "In fact, with this dull, lazy lifestyle of yours – no more running away from monsters for us these days – I think I'm actually starting to fatten up." He patted his stomach and bounced up and down on his toes. "Can't have that – got to keep the old ticker running in tip-top shape, you know."

In the end, she relented, and they both donned exercise clothes and started out on her regular route. Half a mile in, he was already outpacing her, running up ahead, bouncing up and down before returning back to goad her on. "Come on, let's pick up the pace," he said, snapping his fingers.

There were beads of sweat forming on his brow, matting down locks of his hair and something about it – about the sight of grimy body fluids on him winded her more than the exercise. But in the end, all she did was roll her eyes and reply in an irritated tone, "I'm not a sprinter. I've got four miles to cover and I'm not gonna wipe myself out in the first mile. If you want to go on ahead, be my guest."

She almost wished he would, but he didn't, choosing instead to jog alongside her – or rather one step ahead of her – constantly egging her on faster, until about a mile in, when his endless stream of chatter slowed, and the sweat marks started to spread down his T-shirt.

A mile and a half in, his pace finally slowed and it was her turn to be annoyed with his refusal to keep up.

Eventually their steps evened out and his cheerful manner resumed. They entered a park and passed a street vendor selling falafel, which launched him into a stream of prattle regarding the history of the food.

"Now I'm not saying I _invented_ falafel," he explained, "That honour belongs to a woman by the name of Ananiah from Hadera, Israel. I merely brought it to Europe," he continued as they approached a playground swarmed with children. "I taught it to the Roman Emperor Hadrian's head chef. The Emperor's youngest son, in fact, took quite a liking to it, which probably explains why the lad topped out at a full hundred fifty pounds by his tenth birthday."

"You are _so_ full of it," she rolled her eyes and steered around a rollerblader approaching them head-on.

He ignored her. "Of course Nigilius – Hadrian's head chef – insisted on putting far too much parsley in it. I kept telling him..." He broke off for a moment, his eyes widening, fixing on something behind her. "Erm..." he gave a shake of his head and then he was back looking at her again. "Yes. Light on the parsley, heavy on the salt, that's what Ananiah kept telling me, but Nigilius wouldn't hear of it."

He grinned his most charming grin at her and now she was mystified because for a moment there she had been half expecting to see Cybermen or enormous, human-eating lizards or some other ominous alien threat behind her, but now his face was denying any problem at all.

So she looked over her shoulder to see what had caught his attention, and when she saw what it was, she almost wished it _had_ been Cybermen.

But it was nothing so exciting or death-defying. Nothing big at all, in fact. It was, quite simply, a woman.

He had been ogling a woman.

He had been ogling a woman and she stared at him, the realisation finally sinking in that they weren't going to be able to deny it any longer.

She really had no idea who he was.

_tbc_


	6. Chapter 6: Sailboats and Silence

**Chapter 6: Sailboats and Silence**

+ - + - + - +

She awakens the next morning feeling like a normal person.

A normal pregnant person, to be precise; the telltale nausea is starting to poke at her whenever she goes too long without a bite to eat, and her energy level isn't what it normally is.

She still hasn't told Mum the news, so when the phone rings with an invitation to come shopping for the day, she begs off, claiming a headache and promises to be over for supper later. She knows that Mum is just as happy either way, as long as she's away from work for the day.

She spends the day at home, alternately cleaning, napping and reading,. It is only when she opens the kitchen cupboard over the sink and finds a box of biscuits that's nearly empty, and a jar of jam that hasn't been touched in at least 3 years, does she realise how long it's been since she's spent any length of time in her flat alone.

Today, though, the sun is shining in the windows and the couch is inviting and she feels like she's really home.

+ - + - + - +

When she shows up at Mum's and Pete-who-isn't-her-dad's house later for supper, she's greeted by three family members with three separate agendas. Tony excitedly shows her the model he's been painting, Mum clicks her tongue and comments that she looks pale, and Pete tells Mum to lay off the girl, that she looks perfectly fine, and then proceeds to pump her for information on the meeting she had the other day with their Torchwood operatives investigating an alien threat in Australia.

And so all thoughts of sharing the news with them are easily swept under the rug. It's what she had hoped for, if she's honest with herself, because in her mind, she's anticipated every imaginable reaction that Mum might have, and she's just not ready to deal with a single one of them. Anger, exasperation, joy; each one comes with its own set of baggage that she doesn't have the energy for.

It occurs to her just how much she misses Mickey right about now.

She could tell _him _without any hesitation. She could tell him, and it would rip out his heart even more than she already had, but he would never show it to her. He would simply make a snide, if possibly unfair comment about absentee fathers, add in a mention of how she's about to get fat for good measure, and then he'd give her a hug and stand by her and be her friend every step of the way.

If he were here now, she'd be able to tell Mum.

But he's not and so she doesn't, and when she refuses a glass of wine with supper, Mum raises a questioning eyebrow, and she brushes it off, chalking it up to a lingering headache.

She knows she won't be able to use these excuses much longer.

Finally, she goes home and collapses into bed, as the feeling of contentment starts to slip away, the walls of her flat echoing around her with ghosts.

+ - + - + - +

Monday and Tuesday are a blur of exhaustion; incredible fatigue right down to her bones, interspersed with bouts of nausea as she drags herself through work. She has endless meetings with Torchwood operatives who are tracking a suspicious series of power failures in Leeds, but throwing herself into it all isn't working as it used to. Her only real relief is climbing into bed at night. But then Tuesday afternoon comes and she excuses herself early to go pick up Tony from school.

As she drives to her destination, her mouth creeps upwards and she thinks she may have one other respite.

+ - + - + - +

It's crisp and grey outdoors today, and she spots John standing alone by the side of the playground dressed warmly in a navy wool coat, his hands in his pockets as he watches the children climb, jump and race in all directions.

She nears him from behind and touches his sleeve in greeting. "It's brilliant," she says as he turns to her. "_Jane Eyre_ – I'm up to chapter 17 and I love it."

He sticks out his chin with mock pomposity at her words. "I knew you would."

Just then, Tony appears around a corner of the climbing structure and barrels into her with a bear hug. She grins and ruffles his hair as John adds, "How are you doing?"

The question is common enough; the sentiment is not new but there _is_ something new behind it in the slight deepening of his voice, in the way his gaze probes at her before he turns away. If he were another man, or if this were different circumstances, she might call it protectiveness, but that can't be the case here and now. Either way, she's certainly not going to get into an in-depth discussion on her well-being with a seven-year-old clinging to her waist, so she shrugs and give a succinct reply. "'I'm fine."

Then there are several young voices behind him, calling his name and she quickly sees there'll be no time for chatting today, so she tells Tony to go get his books, and then turns to John purposefully. "I was wondering – since Hitchcock was such a flop, would you like to try again? Your choice this time?"

She studies him as she speaks; the way his eyebrows are raised, the way he edges closer to her, and she gauges his reaction carefully for the slightest hint of annoyance beneath his unfailing manners. There isn't any.

"My turn, then?" he smiles, then glances back at the raucous crowd calling for him. He motions hurriedly to himself. "Give me your number – I'll ring you later."

She complies, scribbling her mobile number on a scrap of paper and he manages to get it into his pocket before hurrying off to deal with the crowd of children clamouring for his attention.

She's still watching him with a smile when Tony returns, ready to go home.

+ - + - + - +

The next evening she's working late, and when John calls, she's in the thick of attempting to communicate with an alien that they've picked up around Regent's Park. The creature, it seems, was engaged in an attempt to herd all the neighbourhood cats together, and it's her job to try to ascertain the reason for this. The creature resembles a large scaly reptile with the head and beak of an eagle and all attempts at communication thus far have resulted in nothing but ear-splitting screeches and squawks, and a lot of hand wringing.

Pete is there with her, trying to navigate his way through the translation programme, so when her phone rings and she excuses herself to take the call, notice is taken on both ends.

She excuses herself and steals out to the hallway, the door clicking behind her as she hears John's voice on the other end. "What in heaven's name is going on there?"

"Oh, that?" she replies, flustered and surprised that she's not beyond the point of getting flustered. "It's – erm – just an equipment malfunction. Misalignment of an auxiliary injector," she says quickly, hoping to divert his attention. "Makes a dreadful noise, I know."

There's a pause on the other end, just empty silence and dead air and she can't see if he looks quizzical or annoyed or some combination of the two.

Finally he gives a laugh that's really more of a grunt. "I've heard cat fights; I've heard amateur violin performances that weren't nearly so ear-splitting."

"Yeah, I know it's awful," she agrees. She really needs to change the subject, so she sneaks down the hallway, around a corner and into a darkened, seldom-used corridor that smells of formaldehyde and mould, in an effort to put more distance between her and the din of the creature. "How are you?" she asks, starting over. "Have you picked a place to go?"

"I have," he replies. Surrounded by silence at last, she can hear him properly, and she realises that this is the first time they've spoken on the phone; the first time she's heard his voice without seeing his face. The sound of him is something different, something new; it's low and calm, and yet it's resonant and huge with life and possibilities, and somehow seems too big for the phone in her hand.

"And?" she asks.

"How do you feel about Thai food?" he proposes.

"Thai food?"

"Northern Thai, to be specific. Nothing too fancy; the sort of place you might find in the less touristy areas of Chiang Mai, but they do serve a lovely Hang Lay Curry. Really, it's so delectable that I think King Saen Phu himself would..." he breaks off abruptly.

She hears tapping on the other end like he's thrumming his fingers on the table. "What?" she asks.

"How are your taste buds these days? Nausea? Food aversions?"

She laughs. "You've been around pregnant women before."

"Once or twice," he confirms, and somehow she doesn't think that's the whole story.

"I'm fine," she agrees. "A little nausea but nothing a curry won't cure."

"Tomorrow, then?"

She agrees and they arrange a time to meet, and then she returns to the interrogation chamber, where Pete is waiting for her. When he sees her, he eyes her up and down with a raised brow, and the way he looks at her is far too knowing for a man who's not her father.

+ - + - + - +

The next time he notices it, he's in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

He _knows_ there are no mosquitoes in the Pacific.

Really, though, it doesn't feel anything like a mosquito.

He's aboard a sailboat; a 50-foot cruising ketch about a hundred nautical miles east of Maui. It's 10:00 at night as he lounges above deck, feeling the wind through his hair as he lays back and contemplates the full moon that casts its light on the waves; the night sky that's illuminated with millions of stars and planets, many of which can only be seen when one is this far away from human civilisation, away from the manmade lights that spoil the view.

He's out here on a quest to recover the Crown Jewel of Optera, which has been stolen by bandits, embezzled, smuggled, stolen again, and finally jettisoned into Earth's atmosphere when the smugglers' ship was facing boarding by Intergalactic Customs Agents and they had to dump their entire cargo.

It's a tremendous amount of fuss over a stone that's the size of an edible ball-bearing and a rather unremarkable shade of brownish-grey, but considering that the sky and the foliage on Optera glows mostly in a hue of alarmingly bright pink – the result of a particularly high concentration of betalains in most forms of plant life, and the planet's three suns that are placed in perfect opposition, causing the rays to bounce off the acidic atmosphere – well, anything in a more mundane tone does tend to give the impression of beauty by comparison.

Had it fallen into the deeper waters further off the coast of California, it would've sunk to the unreachable depths of the ocean and been lost forever. Fortunately for the Opterrans, however, it had landed only about half a mile out from Mendocino where it was promptly swallowed by a small butterflyfish.

The stone gives off an integrated particle signature that can be tracked, so he's teamed up with a pair of Americans; twenty-somethings by the names of Duane and Polly, who are travelling the world aboard Duane father's boat, and are willing to take him on this chase across the ocean.

And it does appear that they're headed across the ocean. Judging by the speed and distance the stone has covered in the past week, the original butterflyfish who swallowed it has probably been eaten itself, and its predator eaten again, because the current host is travelling at the quite respectable speed of about thirty miles per hour. He surmises it's probably a shark, and mulls over a variety of plans to extricate the item from its host once they've caught up with it.

And so the chase goes on this particular night, as he takes refuge above deck, away from the all-too-loud, and more than a little bit compromising sounds of Duane and Polly having sex below decks.

It's something he finds himself doing almost every night and he's reminded of why he always tried to avoid companions with romantic entanglements when he used to travel in the TARDIS.

Back when he had a TARDIS.

But now he doesn't, and beggars can't be choosers, so here he sits above deck where he's still not entirely out of earshot of their enthusiastic groans. He presses his lips together and tries to shake off images in his mind of blonde hair and warm, breathless lips against his, and he wonders how many more times he can endure this.

That's when he feels the nip on the back of his hand.

He smacks at it and glances about wildly, wondering if he could've been hit by – well, _anything_ falling through the air, even though he knows that nothing is.

That's not what it feels like anyway. It's not a prick to his skin so much as it's a nudge to his insides; a twitch directly to his muscle fibres and synapses and he wishes for the millionth time that he had a sonic screwdriver to take some readings of his own anatomy; in particular of his temporal internals.

Then he wishes it for the millionth and first time, because the Timeline folds over and repeats itself again.

+ - + - + - +

Back in London, the Time Monitor registers its fifth blip, and still nobody notices.

_tbc_


	7. Chapter 7:Chivalry and Charlotte Pollard

Chapter 7: Chivalry and Charlotte Pollard

+ - + - + - +

The restaurant is a casual atmosphere with white tables on a tile floor, walls decorated with pictures of elephants, images of the Buddha and the King of Thailand. A fishy, spicy scent hangs in the air and in the background there are rapid, lilting voices chatting in another language.

They claim a table along the wall towards the rear, and the waitress comes presently to take their order. Rose selects chicken curry, John orders a variety of appetizers and Vegetarian Pad Thai and she gives him a questioning look at his selection.

"I rarely eat meat," he explains. "I lost my taste for it a while back. I used to do a fair bit of travelling and it can be quite alarming, what passes for food in some places."

She nods and takes a sip of water and she's about to ask him about his travels, but he interjects with a question for her. "Did you get things at work sorted?" he asks. "No permanent hearing loss?"

"What?" she replies, her momentary confusion transforming into a nervous laugh. "Oh – yeah. We got it fixed," she offers lamely, as if a shorter lie somehow makes it less of an offence.

"What sort of research do you do?" he asks, eyebrows raised as he blinks at her expectantly. There's something behind the question, as if he's testing her to see if she'll tell him after being evasive about it before.

It's not that she _can't_ tell him. Most of Torchwood's work isn't explicitly confidential, but employees are urged to use discretion, if for no other reason that some people would have them locked up based on many of their tales. If she tells him, she doesn't know if he'll think she's a lunatic. But that's the easy excuse, and it's not the real reason she doesn't want to tell him. The real reason is far less straightforward and far more selfish: she doesn't want him involved in the intricate drama of her daily life. Being with him is relaxing and uncomplicated and she's enjoying that too much right now to ruin it.

So she's evasive. "Biology," she replies vaguely and she's not sure but she thinks he looks disappointed. So she adds, "It's really pretty boring most of the time."

He slides forward in his seat, his elbows on the table and a gleam in his eye. "Ah, but it's that one percent of the time," he says knowingly, "that moment, that flash of insight that makes all the tedium worthwhile." He says it like he knows – like he's speaking from experience and when she feels her brow furrow he chuckles knowingly. "I used to work in research myself," he explains.

There's an obvious question here, but it's a question she's already refused to answer him on, so the words stick in her throat until he interjects with a non sequitur. "So that brother of yours," he says, "is quite a character. He has a knack for finding trouble like nothing I've seen before."

It's an abrupt change of topic, and it ought to make her feel better, because his evasiveness justifies hers, meets hers halfway. It _ought_ to make her feel better, but it doesn't. There's a gap between them that's formed from unanswered questions and it's suddenly doubled in size.

She plays with her water glass, fitting it into the ring of condensation it left behind where it sat before and she has no choice but to respond. "I'm afraid that's probably my fault," she sighs with a weak laugh. "After everything I've put Mum and Pete – Dad through, they hardly take notice of Tony's antics now. Nothing a seven-year-old can do will ever compare."

His eyebrows shoot up. "You call your father 'Pete'?"

And once again she's caught in a choice between lying and telling a truth that can't be told, and she's really starting to hate it. For one hideous moment she vacillates between the two options, until finally she speaks up with a response that tries to be neither but ends up being both. "He's my father – _genetically_ he's my father but he wasn't there when I was growing up, so..." she trails off with a shrug. It still feels like a lie.

He makes the assumption that he's meant to make, assuming the lie and making the easy judgement. "I'm surprised your mother would forgive him like that," he says, taking a sip of water.

"It wasn't his fault," she adds, the best defence she can offer and it's not enough because he still looks sceptical. "Really," she emphasises, "he did nothing wrong." She knows the denial falls flat.

He fingers the silverware set in front of him, looks away and then back at her. "Long story?" he asks and the touch of impatience in his voice isn't directed at Pete any more.

She nods mutely.

"And how do your parents feel about your situation – with you on your own?" he asks.

She knows he's pressing her now, she's put him off too long, she's put everything, everyone off for too long. "I haven't told them," she says, raising her glass and looking into it.

She can't see his face but she knows he's not surprised. "Have you told..." he begins.

"No," she cuts him off sharply as she pushes her chair back and gets to her feet. "Excuse me, I need to use the loo."

She hastens off before he can say anything and finds her way to the lavatory. The room is cold and overwhelmingly _white_, and the sharpness digs at her self-pity and chases away the sobs as she takes a series of deep breaths to calm herself.

She uses the toilet and washes her hands and when she heads back she's calm and contrite and quietly resolved.

She finds the waitress standing at their table delivering an assortment of appetizers and chatting with John amiably in a foreign tongue. She waits while the other girl places the last dish on the table, utters syllables at John that Rose assumes are in farewell, and disappears back towards the kitchen. John rises from his seat and circles round the table to pull her chair out for her, and she laughs good-naturedly as she sits down. "You really don't belong in this century, you know," she teases as he reclaims his spot opposite her. "With those manners of yours, I can see you, a hundred and fifty years ago in a waistcoat and cravat, smoking a pipe and reading poetry with Lord Byron."

"No thank you," he replies with a sneer. "The man was insufferably arrogant, he treated women like cattle. His affairs were legendary, he had more children out of wedlock than in, he was abusive, he was irresponsible," he pauses for a breath and glances around him as if remembering where he is. "Please don't compare me to him," he punctuates his rant with a sheepish laugh.

"How do you know all that?" she chuckles in return.

"You know, I'm not sure," he says, helping himself to a spring roll and lifting it up to her in a toast. "Bon appétit."

She pokes at a cube of fried tofu with her fork before settling on the chicken satay and when she bites into it, the taste is a powerful combination of sweet, sour, salty, fiery and fishy, laced with spices that blend together seamlessly. It spreads on her tongue and she chose well, because it smothers very effectively the foul pregnancy-induced taste on her tongue that she can't seem to get rid of these days.

"So what was that all about?" she asks, indicating the direction where the waitress disappeared. "I didn't know you spoke any other languages."

"Oh, a few," he dismisses. "French, Swahili, Mandarin and of course Thai." He throws a puzzled glance in the direction where the girl went. "I thought there was something familiar about her so I asked her if we'd met before…"

"Oldest line in the book," she interjects like she's trying to make a point by saying it.

He brushes her off. "She assures me we haven't met, either way." He takes another bite of his spring roll and chews it thoughtfully. "Odd, that. Normally I never forget a face."

He pushes the plate of spring rolls in her direction and encourages her to try some, and she knows he's giving her space after pressing her so hard before. She doesn't want the space, though, so finally she lays her fork down and speaks softly. "I'm going to tell him," she says. "Tomorrow – I'll call him tomorrow."

"He needs to know, Rose," he urges gently. "You'll be fine."

"I know," she sighs, though she's not sure which statement she's agreeing to.

+ - + - + - +

He doesn't press her any further for the rest of the meal and the conversation flows easily from then on, regarding books and music and his travels in Thailand. She's enjoying the food, but her temperamental stomach requires slow going, so she picks at it and chats with him and he orders more side dishes, and then dessert and coffee and before she knows it, they've been there almost two and a half hours.

And then suddenly she's full and the exhaustion that's been creeping up round the edges finally overtakes her. Her efforts at hiding it are shattered when she lets out an enormous yawn – the sort that makes her legs quiver along with it – in the midst of an anecdote of his involving his cousin and a plum pudding from last Christmas. He breaks off when he sees the gesture, looking slightly amused.

"'M'sorry," she apologises. "I'm listening – really I am."

"You're exhausted," he observes. "I'm sorry, I suppose we ought to finish up here." He signals the waitress for the bill.

She brings it over and it becomes a bone of contention between them because he insists on paying and she refuses because he paid for the movie last time. But he still insists and it's only after she points out that not only is it the 21st century, but this is _not_ a date, and she is a fully-grown woman of independent means – only then does she finally get him to agree to let her pay.

Provided she permit him to drive her home.

Her trip involves two subway trains, a bus ride and a walk of four blocks, and she's perfectly capable of navigating her way, even when she's tired. His antiquated chivalry is beginning to grate, but she rolls her eyes, sighs heavily and agrees to the ride while she signs her name on the credit card receipt.

+ - + - + - +

As it turns out, he doesn't have his keys with him, so a quick side trip is necessary to retrieve them from his flat. It's only two blocks so the distance is covered in a matter of minutes, and as he unlocks the front door of the apartment building, and he lets her in, he mentions that he's not sure if his cousin will be home at this hour.

And only then does it strike her what she's doing.

But that's not right, because she knows what she's doing; she knows that nothing is happening here. Her mind is awhirl with confusion and expectations that are at odds with her instincts as she follows him wordlessly down the hallway to apartment #8. Finally when he hands her the bag of leftovers to hold whilst he unlocks the door, she asks the question. "What are we doing?"

He glances at her and he's puzzled, so she elaborates. "Together – you and me – what are we doing here?"

He twists the key in the lock, removes it and turns sideways to face her, and gives her a reply that's as even-handed as ever. "I enjoy your company," he says, as if it should be perfectly obvious, as if it should be as simple as that.

And maybe it should be, but she knows it isn't. Unconsciously her feet take a step backwards, she leans one shoulder against the wall and looks away. "Most blokes would be running away screaming from someone in my situation." She says it to the open space over her shoulder and then she moves to meet his gaze and for the briefest of moments there's something so unfamiliar on his face that it brings her up short. She wonders if she could've actually hurt his feelings.

It passes and he shakes his head and turns to open the door. "I sincerely doubt that," he disputes. "I enjoyed talking with you the very first time we met. Why in the world would that change just because you've found out you're pregnant?"

His answer only confuses her further because everything _did_ change when she found it out. Everything changed for _her_ at least, but if it made no difference to him, she must've read him wrong – and strangely, she finds she's disappointed.

But all she does is shrug. He steps closer and he's facing her now, and she can smell peanuts and lemon on his breath. It would be so easy to reach out, to touch the cotton of his sleeve, the skin of his hand, to reach across the galaxy that separates them and see what it feels like over there with a real human. It would be so easy, but it's impossibly hard.

"Why are you with me?" he asks quietly, ducking his head so slightly. "I thought we were enjoying ourselves."

He makes it sound so simple, and when he puts it that way she can't refute it, but really it doesn't begin to cover it. So she laughs. "I need someone to feed me," she jokes lamely and then adds, "Can you believe I'm _already_ hungry again?"

He chuckles, turns back to swing the door open, and ushers her inside. She finds herself standing in the entryway to a comfortable but somewhat spartan living room, furnished with a nondescript beige sofa and matching overstuffed chair, coffee table with assorted books, candles, and a fob watch sitting atop it, a few floor lamps and very little else. To the right is a peninsula that divides this room from the kitchen, and to the left is a hallway, presumably leading to the bedrooms.

"Wait there just a moment," he says, removing his jacket and slinging it over the back of the chair. He takes the bag of leftovers from her and disappears into the kitchen, and she can hear crinkling paper as she waits, standing awkwardly in the unfamiliar room.

His head appears from round the corner. "Close your eyes," he says. She feels her eyebrows rise in suspicion, so he adds, "Just do it." It's a stern order delivered with such teasing in his eyes that she complies. It's disorienting, standing in the dark in a strange place, and her breath catches when she hears his footsteps approach, his breath in front of her. "Open your mouth," he says. His voice is low, hovering so close to hers but it still fills up the room; fills up every space it touches and she feels her heart thud against her ribcage.

She complies and suddenly there's an overwhelming putrid scent, like dirty socks or sewage, but before she can pull away there's something being pushed onto her tongue that makes her stop. It's custardy and creamy and she chews slowly as she takes in the incongruous transformation from detestable to delectable. She opens her eyes and he's there, standing close, his face all expectant and hopeful. She's not sure if she likes it, but she finds she doesn't want to disappoint him, so she nods with a smile.

"It's durian," he explains, stepping back out of their shared space. "It's a Thai fruit, somewhat notorious for its odour and also its large spikes that can inflict some rather serious injuries if it falls off the tree from above. Still, the flavour is indescribable; people have been known to..."

Suddenly a door slams, cutting him off and making them both jump, and Rose turns to look down the hallway, where a girl has appeared. She looks to be several years younger than Rose, and she's wearing a dowdy, loose-hanging brown dress that ought to cast a dull aura over its wearer, but somehow the effect is the opposite. The girl's radiant blonde hair and the spirited glimmer of fire in her eyes overpower her drab attire, making it clear to Rose that this girl is very pretty and she's much more beyond that. She enters the living room, laden with notebooks and texts and sits herself down on the sofa deliberately, almost defiantly, as if putting to rest any doubts that she belongs right here.

"Ah," John says, motioning to the girl as she starts flipping through the pages of a particularly large book, turning each one over with a snap. "Charley – my cousin – this is Rose Tyler. Rose, this is Charlotte Pollard."

Rose nods a hello to the girl, who replies, "Pleased to meet you," and she can't decide if that's indifference or coldness in her voice.

"I'll just go and find the keys and then we'll be off," John says as he departs down the hall, leaving her alone with the younger girl. She makes her way over behind the chair and cranes her neck to look at Charley's book. "What are you studying?" she asks.

"Anatomy," Charley replies curtly, turning to write something down in a notebook. "I'm studying to be a nurse."

"That's great," Rose praises her and already she's run out of conversation. But then they're both startled out of the silence as a crash sounds from down the hall and his biting voice can be heard swearing, "Blast it! Where did I leave…"

Charley rolls her eyes and looks up at Rose in bemused aggravation. "He's useless," she says, letting her in on the joke, if only for a moment. "He's absolutely useless at finding anything. And I thought he was bad before." She turns and calls down the hall to him, "Look in your pockets!"

A grunt sounds and there's more rummaging and Charley turns to her. "So you've been out to dinner?" she asks. One eyebrow is arched as she speaks with an imposing attitude that's far too patronising for such a young woman.

Rose nods slowly, cautiously, deciding whether to call the other girl on her attitude, or to just ignore it and play nice. She decides on politeness for now. "Yeah, Thai food," she replies. "It was lovely," she adds and she means more than the food.

"Voila!" calls John's voice from down the hall, the lost keys presumably having been found.

And this is when it happens.

This is when Charley turns to her with her face twisted in a look of caution that's masking something else; something buried deep and barely acknowledged yet seems to be rattling her thoroughly from the inside out. "Look, I don't know you," she says, "so I'm sorry if this sounds rude, but I just thought I'd warn you - I wouldn't get too attached." She nods towards the hallway. "To _him_, I mean."

Rose feels her eyes widen in shock. "What on earth..." she begins and she's about to launch into a full assault on the girl, but Charley cuts her off.

"Nothing to do with you," she backpedals. "Just – I wouldn't expect him to be around for too long."

She's getting a very, _very_ strange vibe from this girl who's his cousin, but she doesn't get to press further because just then John appears again, keys jingling in his hand. "Ready to go, Rose?" he asks, picking up his jacket and heading for the door.

She nods, turns and follows him out the door, and when she glances back and sees Charley clutching the watch and drawing her knees up to her chest protectively, she pretends not to notice.

+ - + - + - +

Her mind is still reeling from his cousin's odd behaviour, so when he prattles on as they stroll towards his car, she lets him, answering as needed in monosyllables.

They reach the car and climb inside. She gives him directions to her flat, and he steers out onto the street. She wants to question him but something tells her to be delicate about it, so she starts slowly. "You haven't lived there long, yeah?" she asks.

"Two months," he replies. "Give or take. It's a bit sparse, I know. I keep meaning to hang some pictures and Charley always says she's going to get some curtains but somehow it never gets done."

"D'you like it?" she asks. "I mean – the flat, yeah, but all of it too – London, your job – do you like it here?"

He's changing lanes as he puts on his signal and looks to his right for traffic. "Yes," he nods finally. "Yes, I believe I do."

"So – no plans to move on, then?" she asks, glad of the dark that hides her face.

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. "Well," he replies, "Charley won't be done with school for at least two years, so certainly not until then, anyway."

She nods and sighs a, "mmm," in acknowledgement and she's still not sure what to make of it all.

"Mind you," he adds, "it is astonishingly expensive to live in the city, but there's just so much to do, so much to see. The history, especially; all the places that are around us, sometimes I feel like I can almost _see_ the events unfolding right in front of me. Like somehow I was there in a past life."

He chats on, and they share stories of city life and the places they've visited until finally they arrive at her building. She directs him to a no-parking spot in front to let her off and he pulls in obligingly.

The shadows off the street lights draw a design on his face as she turns to him, and she has the oddest feeling like she's forgotten something, like she ought to be uncomfortable and awkward but she can't quite recall why. He leans to her, so slightly and places his arm on the centre console between them. "Good evening, Rose Tyler," he says.

She reaches out, takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. "I had a great time," she says. She releases his hand, opens the door and slides out of the car onto the pavement, and she's just about to swing it closed again when he speaks.

"Rose."

She bends over to peer back inside, and her breath catches slightly when she finds him already looking up at her.

"Next time it's your turn to pick."

He says it with anticipation, like he's looking forward to it, like it could be a great adventure awaiting them both, and she can't help but return the smile. It feels idiotic, like they're two kids with a new toy to play with, but all she does is place her tongue between her teeth and reply with a simple, "OK."

The ridiculous grin follows her up the stairs, into her flat, and doesn't even go away as she brushes her teeth.

She slides into bed and snuggles under the covers and it's not until she's about to drift off to sleep that she remembers she needs to call the Doctor tomorrow.

_tbc_


	8. Chapter 8: Tidings and Terminations

**Chapter 8: Tidings and Terminations**

A/N: An extra special shout-out to my beta MizJoely for this chapter. I knew deep down that the first pass wasn't right, but didn't know why. She not only put her finger right on it, but suggested an alternate course of action that was even angstier than the original.

Also a huge welcome back to imzadimylove on beta duties – I missed her and literally squee'd out loud with excitement when I saw that she was back.

+ - + - + - +

Between morning coffee, office meetings and calls from Mum about Tony's school play next week, she manages to put off the phone call till late that next afternoon, when she finally finds herself alone in her office with nobody banging on the door distracting her amidst the latest emergency.

She has over fifty emails awaiting her attention so she starts reading and replying to them, but by the time she reaches the fifth, she makes herself stop and pick up the phone. Her stomach is tied up in knots and she's to the point now where the anticipation is worse than any possible outcome, so it's time to get it over with.

She presses the speed dial number and listens to it ring on the other end.

It rings once, twice, three times and then there's a scratchy befuddled voice on the other end. "Mortimer, I told you we'll find a wetsuit to fit you in the morning; we can't head out on the boat until 8:00 at the earliest, so stop worrying and..."

"Doctor?" she interrupts.

She hears him inhale sharply and then there's rustling on his end as if he's moving to sit up in bed. "Rose," he breathes.

"Did I wake you?" she asks. "I don't know where you are – it's 5:00 in the afternoon here."

"It's all right," he assures her. There's a waver in his voice and it occurs to her that he's nervous; maybe almost as nervous as she is. She hears him breathe again long and slow as if he's still waking up, regaining consciousness in stages.

Then comes the questioning. "Are you all right?"

"M'fine," she replies. "I just..."

"Pete? Jackie? Tony?"

"Doctor, we're all fine. If you would just…"

"Something at Torchwood, then? Did those venom-spewing creatures come back? Remember, just a bit of marmalade with some tiling grout will temporarily paralyse their…"

"Doctor!" she calls out to quiet him.

It works. He falls silent.

She twists a pen through her fingers and bites her lip. "There's nothing wrong," she says. "I just need to tell you...something."

"Then I'm listening," he replies, and his voice is soft like a blanket now.

"OK," she begins slowly, rocking back & forth in her chair before sitting back to prop her feet on her desk. "But I want you to understand something first," she says, starting at the top of her list of disclaimers. "I'm telling you because you should know, because it's the right thing to do."

"Always best to work with full disclosure," he agrees and now he's shifted into cheerful mode.

"I'm _not_ telling you this because I want – or need anything from you," she says with her gut clenched, with a little too much air forcefully expelled.

"Rose, you've always been perfectly capable of taking care of yourself," he agrees gently, and his voice is warm and it's starting to melt her conviction into tears.

She swallows them back. "Doctor, nothing's changed – for us, I mean. I know that."

There's a sigh of impatience from him. "Rose, what are you trying to say? I hardly think you called just to tell me everything's the same."

"I'm pregnant."

The silence is deafening as it stretches out between them. Having said her piece, she slumps back in her chair and lets the chips fall.

He's silent for what seems like hours, and then she hears him shifting again and she can see him in her mind's eye, squirming uncomfortably. Then there's an intake of breath and the beginning of a syllable but it stops before it's complete.

He tries again, and this time he forms a word. "M-mine?"

She knows he's merely processing the information – rather slowly, perhaps, but there's no accusation or insult implied there, so she replies with another simple syllable, "Yes."

"And – and," he sputters out, then tries again. "You're going to - you're sure – and it's normal?"

"I'm seeing Dr. Marwood at Torchwood, she says everything looks all right. There's a few things she's keeping an eye on since the baby isn't fully human, but at this point she's not worried."

She hears a rhythmic squeaking on the other end and she can picture him bouncing up and down on the bed with agitation. "Where are you?" she asks suddenly.

"Taiwan," he replies and then he's off on a slightly manic rant. "A little fishing village a bit south of Nanfang'ao. Been on a bit of a quest for stolen treasure, Mortimer and me. And a pair of Americans who happened to have a rather handy sailboat when I met them in Mendocino. Had a bit of a mishap with the boat - pity about that sandbar, but it's a risk of the trade, you know, there was really no call for Polly to get all cross with _me_ about it. Seriously, it took me an hour to get the wax out of my hair and I'll never be able to wear those trainers again."

She sighs. "Doctor, like I said, I don't need anything from you. I'm fine; you can be as involved or uninvolved ..."

"I'll be there," he interjects, so unexpectedly that she actually gasps in surprise.

"What?"

"I'll be there," he repeats. "I am rather in the thick of things here, but it shouldn't take more than a day or three to sort it all out."

"It's OK," she emphasises. "Whenever, whatever you want to do."

But he's not listening, he's thinking out loud, "...traced the location of the stone, we just need to go diving to retrieve it...should only be a day really, but then we'll need to contact the Opterrans, I'll have to do some jiggery-pokery for that, and of course I promised Huang here I'd teach his son a bit of Spanish - I know it sounds trivial but the man has been very generous letting us use his fishing vessel. Anyway, that could stretch it to a week or so, but it definitely shouldn't be more than that – well, unless of course the Opterrans are…"

Her eyes glaze over and then fall closed as she tunes him out. "Yeah, all right, Doctor," she whispers.

He's still chattering on, but she's said her part, so she hangs up.

+ - + - + - +

She goes home.

She grits her jaw and clenches her fists as she sits on the subway and each breath is forced and controlled. When she finally walks into her flat and the door closes behind her, she lets out a yell filled with such force that her head vibrates behind her eyes and the whole room echoes.

She hopes the neighbours aren't home.

She sinks down into the cushions of the sofa and the sobs find her but it's not helplessness she's mourning this time, it's injustice, so she cries tears of fury and she pounds the pillows with her fists.

"_Don't you dare make this place domestic!"_ he had told her flat out and she had to give him credit because at least he – _that_ version of him – knew he wouldn't – _couldn't_ – and he told her so. Not like the next him who'd eat Christmas dinner with Mum with one foot back in 18th century France. The version who never got around to telling her –

The version who had forced a domestic life upon this new him with the absurd assumption that he wanted it - that the possession of a human heart somehow made him suitable for it, or at least able to live it without going mad.

The two of them were different in many ways, but not in that one.

+ - + - + - +

It had been that previous spring, roundabout the eighth month they were together that things settled down a bit, at least as far as she could tell.

To be sure, living in a new body – living _with_ a new body - presented its challenges, but they weren't infinite and they weren't insurmountable, and inevitably adjustments were made on both sides.

His dizzying mood shifts slowed down to match the pace of his former self – still capricious perhaps, but more familiar and manageable. He continued to try names on for size – his selection at present was 'Ulysses' - or Uly for short – but he no longer expected her to keep up with the current choice and didn't complain when she defaulted back to 'Doctor'.

The old charm that he wore like layers of too-strong cologne was back in full force.

They were on separate assignments at Torchwood at this point, not seeing each other very much during the day, and they were finding the time apart to be rather a good thing for them. Not to say that she wanted to escape him, but even the happiest of couples can be overwhelmed by too much togetherness. She was finding herself energised by her work, and that, coupled with the fact that his wild moods and physical quirks were settling down – well, she started to look forward to their time together. Sometimes he'd take her along on excursions to meet or observe aliens or Earth history in the making, sometimes their plans were more mundane, involving a concert or a play, and sometimes they would just stay in and watch stupid reality TV shows and throw popcorn at the telly, but whatever it was, it almost always involved laughter, excitement, and mind-blowingly fantastic sex at the end of it all.

He was getting a bit experimental in that department, and she loved every minute of it.

+ - + - + - +

It was mid-May before she started to suspect that things might not be going along quite as smoothly as she'd thought.

To be sure, there had been hints, tiny clues all along that he wasn't adjusting well; the occasional black eye or broken finger, grumbles from Torchwood operatives expressing frustrations with his mercurial nature, or the more seldom but always disheartening contempt that he'd mutter under his breath regarding his half-human body.

She hadn't thought much of it at the time. He had always been erratic, and his ability to infuriate those around him was nothing new either. And as for his anatomy, she knew it was an ongoing adjustment for him and some bumps along the way were inevitable.

Most of the time he seemed so much like his old self that she let herself forget he wasn't.

+ - + - + - +

It was only much later that she could look back and see that he never for a moment forgot who he was – and who he wasn't – and how his level of frustration with this new life had grown to the point where he could see it only as small, lesser, diminished.

It was actually Pete who raised the issue with her first.

She had been in her office, getting ready to head home for the day when he appeared, rapping on the door. "Rose, we need to talk," he announced.

She stood behind her desk, her jacket halfway on as she turned to look at him. "What's up?"

"Rose, it's about the Doctor. I'm concerned about him," he explained, coming to face her from across her desk. "For starters, there the four broken bones in five weeks, and the fact that he was no more than a hair's width away from the Sontarran's laser beam last week. It would've killed him in half a second and I don't care what he says – it was luck and nothing more that saved him." He rapped his knuckles on the surface of her desk. "Rose, he's being reckless. I know he's always been a bit – manic – and I know you knew the old him better than I did, but I really don't think he used to be this bad. He's too eager to get out there in the thick of things, he's being overly bold, he's taking too much on himself. It's like he's got something to prove."

She sighed. "Maybe he has."

"Well, this is not the way for him to go about it. And it's not working. He's putting himself in danger, more so every time; he's changing plans on the fly, confusing everyone around him, and throwing himself in the line of fire. I know he's trying to protect others, but I'm afraid it's all going to end up backfiring." He breathed out, his shoulders sagging as he threw a glance behind him out the door. "I've got operatives who're expressing reservations about working with him – and that's fine if he needs to work solo, we'll deal with it. I don't want to lose him. But I don't think he's happy, I'm out of ideas on what to do for him, and I've got a feeling that this isn't going to end well."

It was that last statement that did it finally. It struck a chord with her and rattled her enough to really hear what he was saying for the first time, and her heart sank as she saw the truth in it all.

He'd tried to hide it from her, and she had her suspicions as to why, but either way it was time to deal with it. She slung her jacket over her shoulders and picked up her bag. "All right," she agreed. "I'll have a chat with him."

+ - + - + - +

He brushed her off of course, when she brought up the subject with him. He cited a variety of reasons that ranged from the perfectly justified to the slightly dubious, but there was nothing so outlandish as to cause her any real concerns over his sanity or judgement.

And then he winked and grinned at her with his patented and highly infections grin, assuring her that he was find, everything was just fine and there was nothing to worry about.

And she had fallen under his spell and believed him.

+ - + - + - +

It lasted for three weeks, and then everything fell apart.

It was in early June, 6:00 in the evening on a Tuesday and the Doctor – Uly – was out on assignment with Jake, Pete and two other operatives. A ship had landed in Brockwell park; a ship that Uly had identified as being Romerran in origin, possibly hostile, and they were out investigating.

Rose had spent the day in her office working on a funding proposal for a new teleport device, and was now in her car on the way home when her mobile rang. A glance at the caller ID revealed the origin as Pete's office, and she answered it, surprised. "You're back already? How did things go with the Romerrans?"

"Rose," came his voice; one syllable followed by a pause that was heavy with apprehension - and something else. "Rose, there were some problems."

Her mind shifted into panic mode. "Where's the Doctor?" she asked. "Is everyone all right?"

"Jake and Parker are in hospital. Parker's in pretty rough shape but they think she'll pull through. The Doctor took a few bumps himself."

"He's all right?"

"He's all right," he confirmed, but something still dragged down his tone and the silence that followed was empty and incomplete.

She knew there was more to it. "What is it?"

"Rose, there was a – mistake. A miscalculation. The Romerran is dead."

She gasped and her eyes fell closed knowing what a blow this would be to everyone involved. Still, this couldn't be the whole story. Regrettable as it was, dead aliens were not unheard-of at Torchwood, even seemingly benign ones, and from what she'd heard, the Romerran wasn't necessarily benign. Interplanetary contact was a dangerous business and although they took every precaution to avoid unnecessary casualties, accidents still happened.

No, there was still something more to the story and his hesitance to tell her was making her very, very nervous. "OK," she prodded him as she steered the car off the main road to a side street, pulled over and stopped the car. "What happened?"

He exhaled on the other end and launched into an explanation. "It was a simple mistake, far as I can tell. Jake and Parker would've been dead if he hadn't tackled them to the ground, out of the line of fire. But he blames himself and I'm afraid he's taking it pretty hard."

Her eyes fell closed. "Where is he?"

"He said he was going home. I just thought you should know before you get there."

She started the car again. "Yeah, thanks Dad."

+ - + - + - +

When she got home, he was there.

She wasn't quite sure at first, since the room was in blackness as she opened the door and let herself in, but when her eyes adjusted to the dark she saw the moonlight casting its glow through the slats of the blinds, gently illuminating his shape sitting on the sofa.

She set down her handbag and made her way over to him without turning on the light. She sat down lightly next to him - close, but not touching. "What happened?" she asked gently.

"You talked to Pete?" he volleyed back, his tone far too even, far too smooth like a thin layer of ice over a lake is perfectly smooth, precarious, hiding depths and dangers unseen below.

"Yes."

He shifted in his seat, rising up slightly and down again, just a little bit further away from her. As he moved in and out of the shadows, she noticed the bandage over his eye, and her gaze moved downwards to search for further evidence of injuries, which she found in the form of a sling holding his left arm. "Then you already know what happened," came his reply, a low growl of warning that sent fear into her and froze her in place, killing her impulse to reach for him.

He turned to her, eyes wide and jaw set and his face was full of such ferocity, such fury that for a moment he was every bit the Time Lord he'd ever been.

She drew back.

But almost as quickly, she regrouped and returned. They were _not_ facing the end of the universe, they were not facing Daleks or Cybermen, and she'd be damned if she was going to let him intimidate her into accepting his silence on this. "I want to hear your side of it," she prodded him gently. "Pete said it didn't go well with the Romerran."

No reply.

"He said it's dead."

A grunt.

"He said there was – he said that you…"

He finally whispered a reply, his words like tiny sharp points piercing her in the dark. "I killed him." His head twisted in her direction and she could just make out his eyes narrowed to slits before he turned back again. "Is that what you want to hear?"

She reached for him. "Doctor – Uly," Her fingers touched his sleeve, brushing imperceptibly on the fabric before tightening to reach the flesh underneath.

He stiffened. "I made a mistake." He breathed in, long and slow, smothering the waver in his voice. "Bloody half-human senses; I misjudged the time period it was from. I thought the creature was friendly and I sent Jake and Parker to make contact." He practically spat the words as he continued. "I sent them in as if the creature was an old mate of mine. As if they could just shake hands and invite it over for tea. And there it stood, micro-molecular laser pistol at the ready, just waiting for them."

He sat so still as he spoke; still as a stone, still as death and this struck her, tore at her almost worse than the rest of it because this man was _never_ still, he was always in motion, always moving about, moving ahead, moving on, never stopping to question or cast doubt on anything.

It was wrong and she needed to stop it. "But – it was an accident. And you saved them in the end."

"Don't." he cut her off, blunt and abrupt. "Don't rationalise this like it's some everyday human error, like I made a wrong turn and missed an appointment. An alien is dead; a fully sentient creature that we might've been able to reason with if I hadn't been so rash. Two people are in hospital and it's _my fault._" He rolled his head and even in the dark she could see his eyes follow the same path. "Oh, I thought I was _so_ superior, I thought I knew so much more than everyone else. I was so anxious to prove how much better I am and now I've gone and committed an atrocity just as bad as the worst human."

Now he was getting at the real problem, the real reason for his anguish and she felt so helpless sitting next to him. She gripped his arm tighter, as if she could somehow take on his burden by mere physical contact.

He let out a growl and kicked his foot at the coffee table, sending a book and magazine to the floor in a gesture that might've been childish at any other time, but now just seemed inadequate. "I don't make mistakes like this. Never used to, anyway. Not back when…"

He trailed off and she was left to wonder how the sentence would've ended. Back when he was a Time Lord? Back when he had a TARDIS? He'd downplayed both losses so much – though really, ignoring isn't at all the same as downplaying – but either way, she was just beginning to see the degree to which his losses dwarfed hers.

But all she could offer him was the status quo, and it was a shaky offer at that. "Pete doesn't blame you," she said gently. "I think mostly he's just worried about you."

He turned to her, and all the hard edges and anger melted away, softened, humbled as he reached out to stroke her cheek. "I can't do it any more, Rose. That office and the meetings and the endless planning and red tape, the dreary pattern of this life – day in, day out, so thin and flat like the hollowness of a single heartbeat. I just can't."

He cupped her cheek to catch her tears – tears of fear as much as despair as she pressed into his touch. "What – what are you saying?"

He placed a gentle kiss between her eyes. "I'm saying that I need to try it on my own," he replied gently, leaning in to touch his brow to hers. "Away from Torchwood, so I won't need to be responsible for anyone else for a while," he clarified, and something inside her relaxed, something else tightened at the words. "I need to go and meet the monsters on my own terms, as it were." A brush of his lips on hers brought a new sob in her throat, and she wasn't sure why until he finished the thought. "Like I've always done before," he said, fixing her gaze, so calm now, as if he couldn't even see it, as if he was completely oblivious to how _wrong_ the whole situation was.

His arms found her, encircled her, held her tightly and it only made it worse because he was the _last_ one who should be comforting _her_ over this. She ducked her head, pressed her face against his shoulder and surrendered to the deluge of sorrow. Her shoulders shook under his touch with each sob, her tears soaking the fabric of his shirt, because now she knew she had failed him, and she had failed _him_ and they were trapped together in the failure forever.

"It's all right, I'm all right," he soothed and the way he stroked her hair, kissed her brow only proved further that he didn't understand. "Rose, what is it? What's wrong?"

"We've got to find a way," she choked out, begging him with her tight grasp on his shoulders as if she could shake it out of him. "We've got to find him. We've got to get him to take you away from here."

His hold on her froze. Slowly she lifted her face to look at his and found him staring back at her, and she wanted to shrink out from under him at the look that found her. It was not an unfamiliar expression, but she'd never seen it directed at her before; it was the look of pain and despair that crossed his face when talking about his dead planet or bidding her farewell on that godforsaken beach in Norway.

"Rose, I don't…"

She shook her head, denying whatever false reassurance he was about to give her. "I can't watch you live like this any more. This was all a mistake. We've got to find a way to get you back." She looked down again, laid her forehead on his shoulder that was damp with her tears as a fresh round of them rose up in her. "Why did he do this? Why didn't he want you?" she sobbed into him, her head buried in his neck, her hands fisted in his shirt. "Why didn't he want...?"

The last word went unspoken, but they both heard it nonetheless.

_tbc_


	9. 9: Time Anomalies and Transitions

**Chapter 9: Time Anomalies and Transitions**

+ - + - + - +

The next day is a different sort of day.

It's different from the moment she wakes up with the sun as it shines through the windows into her room, and she's out of bed quickly for a morning jog – the first in over a week.

She gets outside and her feet pound the pavement as her breath shortens with the punishment and the exertion. The air moving through her lungs feels clean, paradoxically heavy and light at the same time, the way that it often does after a good cry. The sorrow is still there, nudging at her when she catches a glimpse of a man in pinstripes, or sees a grocer advertising bananas on sale, but she finds an unexpected sense of consolation as well.

After all, she was the one who'd wanted him set free.

The sorrow is still there, the concern for his well-being still dogs her, but she's beginning to think that maybe it's not her responsibility any more.

It's a windy day and the breeze is at her back pushing her faster as she runs, further with an ever increasing momentum.

+ - + - + - +

It continues to be a different sort of day when she gets to work.

It begins with Pete, who's at her door the moment she enters her office, swinging around the corner to duck his head in. "Rose," he says. "Rose it actually detected something."

She's still setting her bags down on her desk and removing her coat so she only half hears him. "What's that?" she asks, taking a sip from her coffee cup.

"The Doctor's Time Monitor," he explains. He steps into the room, hands in his pockets. "It's detected a series of anomalies in the timeline."

"What?" She stares at him in surprise.

"Come join us in my office," he beckons. "We need to figure out what it all means."

+ - + - + - +

Five minutes later she's sitting at a table in Pete's office with Pete, Jake and Nelson, a junior operative who had been designated by the Doctor himself as Keeper of the Time Monitor upon his departure from Torchwood just over four months ago. Nelson is a very young-looking twenty-two year old with thick glasses and more than a few extra pounds on his frame, and Rose remembers hiring him about a year back; he had suited their need for a computer-and-all-things-technical genius perfectly.

But now she can't help thinking that he looks more than a little bit nervous as he sits at his seat, twisting and turning his pen between his fingers. Given the perceived uselessness of the device, he probably never expected to be in the hot seat like this.

Pete sips his coffee and turns to Nelson, asking him in his direct, no-holds-barred manner, "So let's get right to it – is the thing malfunctioning or isn't it?"

All eyes turn to Nelson who's now looking downright terrified as he blathers out a response that would've made the Doctor proud. "I – I don't believe it's a malfunction," he begins. "Not that we've anything to go off of since it's never malfunctioned before, but I've checked everything I know of to check, and I didn't see anything unusual, and like I said, it's never malfunctioned before so there's really no reason to assume it is now. Although," he reddens visibly, "when you get right down to it, we've really no way to know for sure – I mean the Doctor's really the only one who can tell and _he's_ the one who built this for us so it can tell us in his stead, so there's no reason, really to mistrust..."

Pete cuts him off here with a wave of his hand. "We'll assume the readings are legitimate," he decrees, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. "Now the question is, what does it mean and what do we do about it?"

Nelson is slumped down in his chair now in the mistaken impression that he's no longer on the spot. When he sees everyone looking at him expectantly, his eyes widen and he sits up abruptly, knocking his notepad onto the floor. "I – I mean – he didn't – we never discussed..." he stammers.

Rose breaks in at this point to help him out. "We have no way of knowing what it means," she says. "What did the readings say, exactly?"

"They're all different," Jake jumps in at this point, sliding a printout across the table in her direction. "Seven anomalies, each in different locations and for varying durations. The nature of the anomalies isn't even consistent: in some cases the Timeline skipped ahead, in some cases it folded over and repeated, and one time it just froze for half a second."

She scans the report. "It looks like the effect was highly localised each time." She shivers at a sudden memory of a nightmarish black pterodactyl-like creature coming at her from above. "Greenland, New York, Boston, Vancouver…I don't know what could be causing it, but if the Web of Time is breaking down..." She looks down at the table and then up at the man who isn't her father, remembering a broken vase outside a church, a speeding car disappearing and reappearing. "The consequences could be devastating."

"I need some ideas here," commands Pete.

Nelson sits up in his chair. "What about those unidentified transmissions we were picking up over the Southern Gothenburg Archipelago last month? Did anyone determine if they were alien in origin?"

Jake shakes his head. "American."

Rose lays her pen down and looks at Pete. "Look, the fact is that we don't know. There's just no way of telling anything about this without more information."

"The Doctor would know what to do," interjects Jake pointedly. "Or he'd be able to point us in the right direction, anyway."

The three men turn to her and she grits her jaw and shakes her head fiercely. "We're _not_ calling him," she pronounces. "Not unless we've got no other option."

That's the end of that discussion.

Nelson is sitting with his chin resting on his hand, his eyes focused off in the distance as he ponders. "What if we looked for some sort of pattern or connection between the incidents?" he finally speaks up. "We could try triangulating the locations and times and, I don't know, cross reference with the climactic conditions, or the presence of alien spacecraft in the atmosphere, or any magnetic patterns or transmissions going on at the time, solar radiation, or any sort of blip we might've picked up affecting the space-time continuum. It might tell us a little more about what could be causing this."

Pete and Jake are now looking at Nelson like he's a gnat that's suddenly started speaking intelligently about quantum physics, but all Pete does is nod towards him and reply, "All right, then, see what you can come up with."

+ - + - + - +

She waits until the following Tuesday to talk to John.

She restrains herself from calling him because she knows the direction the conversation will take. She knows he'll ask if she's made the phone call, and she's spent enough time crying on his shoulder already.

She needs some time to get used to the idea of facing this alone.

It occurs to her, not for the first time, that she has no girlfriends to talk to. She's been in this universe for eight years now; certainly enough time to meet people and settle in, but really, she was never interested in settling in. She spent the first seven of those years in her single-minded quest to get back to her original universe and her original Doctor, and the last of those years was spent mostly trying to get the _new_ Doctor settled in.

Then there's the fact that she's got no idea how to talk to women her age any more. She's got nothing in common with any of them, except perhaps with a few Torchwood employees, but they all look upon her as a commander, as the boss' daughter and it's a barrier to friendship that's not easily overcome.

She used to be friends with Jake. During those first seven years there were so many late nights the three of them used to spend here; she and Mickey and Jake, oftentimes working together on an idea to track down the latest alien threat, or troubleshooting the latest obstacle with the Dimension Cannon. Or more often still, sharing snacks or drinks and small talk over a few hands of Poker.

It was strange; when Mickey was there, she'd thought Jake was one of the best mates she'd ever had, but now with him gone, they were awkward and lost for words with each other. She knows that he misses Mickey, and maybe he blames her for his absence; maybe she blames herself, but either way things have irrevocably changed between them.

So she's alone. She buries herself in work for the week, she spends Saturday afternoon playing video games with Tony, Saturday night home alone eating a pint of ice cream and watching an inane action film. On Sunday she shops and does laundry and then it's Monday and it's back to work.

Finally Tuesday rolls around and it's time to go pick Tony up and she's ready – she's _eager_ to talk to John.

She arrives and approaches the school yard, and her eyes scan over the entire perimeter but find no trace of him. The only teacher she sees on the grounds is a prim and proper woman in a dull grey suit and sensible shoes, her hair pulled back severely from her face. She approaches her and catches her attention. "Excuse me."

"Oh, yes, hello," the woman replies, crisp and efficient as she gazes at her through wire-rimmed glasses. "Miss Tyler, isn't it? You're here for Tony?"

"Yes, but," she sputters, suddenly flustered. She starts over. "John. John Smith – he's usually here on Tuesdays?"

"Oh, yes," the older woman replies with a glance over Rose's shoulder and a tap of her foot. "He's home ill today, we expect him back tomorrow. Would you like to leave a message for him?"

She shakes her head as she spots Tony and beckons to him. "No, that's all right," she says, deflated and hoping her disappointment doesn't show. "Never mind."

She takes Tony by the hand and together they make their exit. Her patience is short with him the rest of the afternoon and after she snips at him for spilling cookie crumbs on the floor, she lets him watch telly, figuring it's better for them both.

+ - + - + - +

Mum comes to pick Tony up a few hours later. She's left alone and now she's got a pretence to call John that's entirely unrelated to her personal drama, so she dials his number and grins when he picks up. She can hear him fumbling with the phone and then he speaks, but his normally smooth, full voice is weak and scratchy.

"Hello?"

"So what's this, then?" she harasses him playfully, with a brazenness incited by the several miles' distance between them. "I come to pick up Tony, expecting to see his dashingly handsome teacher and instead I get Margaret Thatcher's ugly older sister in his place."

He gives a weak laugh that turns into a coughing fit. "Sorry," he offers in mock apology. "But I thought it best not to set my particular brand of virus loose on the school children of London, lest it mutate them into geniuses bent on world domination or television game-show hosts."

She laughs. "You're witty when you're ill," she observes. "So what's the problem? Brain tumour? E coli? Flesh-eating bacteria?"

"Oh, nothing quite so exciting," he replies. "Merely what humans refer to as 'the common cold', though I will say there's nothing common about this cough."

"Typical man," she rolls her eyes. "The slightest little bellyache and you're whinging like a three-year-old."

"Rose Tyler," he chides, "I will not stoop to such juvenile and hackneyed insults as this." His air of teasing superiority implodes into mock pitifulness. "I am far too ill," he adds.

She laughs again. "Well, I won't bother you, then," she assures him. "Get some rest and ring me when you feel better."

"You can count on it," he replies.

She hangs up the phone and it's ridiculous how much she enjoyed that.

+ - + - + - +

She enjoyed it so much that a scheme comes to mind, and a few minutes later she's out the door on the way to the shop to put her plan into action.

A half hour later she's at his building, shopping bag in hand, convincing the large heavyset brunette woman who's unloading groceries to let her into the building in order to surprise a friend. The woman opens the door for her and she winds her way down the hallway to apartment #8, rings the buzzer and a moment later the door opens revealing the face of his cousin Charley.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she begins, flustered. "I came to check on John, I was thinking..." she trails off because she doesn't know exactly _what_ she was thinking. She starts over. "Is he here? Is he awake?"

"Not exactly out running a marathon today," Charley replies with just a little more sarcasm than the situation calls for.

She doesn't move out of the way to let her in so Rose is forced to take a step forward. "Can I come in?"

She's still perplexed by this other girl; still mystified from her abrupt words the night they met, so when she hears her exhale, it may be only in her imagination that it sounds sharp. But regardless, Charley steps aside and lets her through. "He's in his room," she motions down the hallway.

She makes her way down the corridor, noticing again just how sparse the décor in his flat is, with its bare walls and nondescript furnishings. There are, at least, some curtains to cover the windows but they, too are an unremarkable shade of beige and she suspects they're there more for practicality than appearance.

She reaches a doorway where she can hear him coughing from within, raps on the door and pushes it open. "Surprise," she announces. "This is your friendly neighbourhood convalescence service."

He's sitting up in bed, pillows at his back, wearing rumpled blue and white striped pyjamas and his legs are stretched out and crossed in front of him as he reclines, reading a book. His hair is dishevelled, his eyes are bloodshot and his nose is red from too many handkerchiefs but his grin when he sees her is unmistakable. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

"Just delivering a few items for the patient," she announces, setting the shopping bag she's carrying down on the foot of the bed. She opens it and begins retrieving items from it. "Antihistamines," she begins, handing him a box of pills. "Chicken soup – canned because I'm rubbish in the kitchen, the latest John Grisham novel, though I see you've already covered that one." She nods towards his book as she sets the items on his bedside table next to a fob watch and digs back into the bag. "A copy of _Casablanca_ just in case you're desperate, although..." she glances round the room helplessly before turning back to him. "You don't even own a television, do you?"

"Whatever would I need one for?" he replies, flipping through the pages of the book she gave him.

"Oh, I don't know, keeping current with the celebrity gossip? Brushing up on the proper technique for hanging wallpaper? Watching a band of aliens crash their space ship into Big Ben?" Her eyes dance down at him. "Doesn't your cousin object?"

"Oh, not a bit," he replies. "She never had television growing up; her parents wanted no part of it."

She wants to question him further about his odd cousin, but the girl is within earshot in the next room, so she moves on, retrieving the next item from the bag. "Someone to keep you warm at night," she teases as she hands him a teddy bear.

"Though perhaps not the most stimulating bedtime conversationalist," he shoots back with a wink that she chooses not to take as a flirt.

"And lastly," she announces as she produces the final item, "tea."

"We've already got tea," says another voice and suddenly Charley is there and the indignation in her tone is tangible as she places a box of tissues down on the bedside table. "You know I could've just gone to fetch any of this for you," she says as she reaches out and picks up the fob watch from the bedside table.

"Oh, but that's no fun if you have to ask for it," Rose can't help digging at the girl as she sets the box of tea down with the other items. "Plus, this way he gets a visitor and that's got to help the recuperation process, don't you think?" She smiles her sweetest smile at her and it's official: they're snarking at each other.

Charley throws her a look of warning, like she's watching closely, just waiting for her to make a wrong move. She fingers the watch in her hands protectively, and Rose is left feeling like she's been accused of something shady and underhanded and the allowances she's been making for the girl are quickly running out.

But she's spared any further attitude as Charley looks down with a frown before tossing her head and making her exit, clutching the watch in her fist like it's a priceless jewel.

Rose turns to John. "Tony missed you terribly at school today," she informs him. "Something about not getting his turn to be line leader – it seems that job fell to Emily and he was quite offended."

He grins. "I'll make sure he gets his turn as soon as I'm back," he says and then his eyes turn soft and he leans forward intently. "How are you?" he asks, and it's not just an idle inquiry.

"M'fine," she replies before taking a deep breath to answer the question he's really asking. "I called him."

His eyebrows shoot up. "And?"

She presses her lips together and gives a tiny shake of her head, and she didn't want to do this with him, this is _not_ why she came here, but there's a lump in her throat and she can feel tears forming and she's paralysed, unable to move or say anything further.

Anger flashes in his eyes, a cold blue fury that's directed towards another man; a man he's never met, and the intensity of it sends a shiver through her and threatens to unleash a flood of tears. But then a moment later he shifts gears, softening as he leans forward to take her hand and squeeze it to give her a distraction. "Ever play any Scrabble?" he looks up at her inquiringly. "Come on, pull up a chair, we can put the board on the table here."

His hand wraps hers with warmth and doesn't let go as he nods, urging her on and then his bloodshot eyes and his red, runny nose bring her back to the present, reminding her of why she came here in the first place.

She takes a deep breath and nods. "Can I get you some tea first?" she offers.

"Actually, that soup sounds quite inviting," he replies, and whether it's true or whether he knows she just needs to do something for someone else for a change – well, it hardly matters at this point.

So she takes the can of soup to the kitchen where she putters around, finds the can opener and a saucepan and the soup is heating on the stove when Charley appears from her room down the hall. The girl mutters something about going to the library to study and leaves, without looking up to meet her eyes even once.

+ - + - + - +

He beats her soundly at Scrabble despite an occasional tendency to spell out nonexistent words and assign obscure meanings to them. She tries to tease him for cheating, a gentle, playful prod at his furrowed, frustrated brow, but he seems genuinely confused so she desists and they let the dictionary settle the matter.

He eats the soup, finishes it and then she makes them both some tea as they play another round, and it's funny how she thought she was the one taking care of him when it turns out they're both doing it for each other.

_tbc_


	10. Chapter 10: Scientists and Substance

**Chapter 10: Scientists and Substance **

+ - + - + - +

The anomalies are getting stronger and more frequent, and he knows he needs to look into the matter.

He knows he needs to do a lot of things, but somehow he's still lingering in Taiwan.

It's a week after she called him with the news and there've been three more anomalies during that time, one of which woke him out of a sound sleep the previous night.

He'll look into it soon, but right now he's busy wrapping things up in Taiwan with the Opterrans, configuring a neutron injector in order to construct a communicator. The stone – the Crown Jewel of Opterra has been found, thanks to a set of borrowed SCUBA gear, Huang's fishing vessel, and Mortimer's particularly creative use of an eggbeater.

Mortimer has gone, continuing his tour of skateboarding around the world and leaving the Doctor with the task of returning the stone to the Opterrans, and now he's working on turning an electric toothbrush, a mechanical pencil and a Gameboy into a crude communicator with which to contact them.

Once that's done, he can start figuring out what's causing the anomalies.

He twists another wire in his hand and ponders the equipment and instruments that he'll need for the investigation.

Torchwood has a number of useful items on hand. The easiest thing to do, really, would be to enlist their help, because surely by now the Time Monitor has detected the anomalies as well, and they're probably holding meetings and strategy sessions and putting together project plans in order to figure out what to do about it. And getting absolutely nothing productive done in the process, because when you get right down to it, they'll not have the foggiest notion as to any appropriate course of action.

He shrugs to himself with a dark and cynical chuckle and thinks that maybe he's become one of them after all.

This of course brings her phone call to mind, yet again, and with it comes the ponderous mix of reactions: satisfaction at hearing her voice and knowing she's well, tension at the awkwardness between them that only feeds on itself once it's started, and the regret that wraps his every thought of her.

He gives a shake of his head, shaking away visions of a tongue-touched smile and cheeks flushed red under blonde hair. He thinks of her human flesh enveloping a seed, the beginning of something unknown that's wrapped in sadness and longing; wrapped in flesh that he craved and abhorred at the same time and now he's torn between the two; the curiosity, the burning need to explore the unknown, and the discomfort and distaste at the very idea because this time it's his own flesh involved.

His own flesh that still doesn't fit properly.

He slaps a pinch to his knee and blinks at the skipped moments that follow. His eyes wobble just a bit; somehow his head doesn't feel like it fits him today. It feels light and unsteady and he breathes in deeply, thinking how he always seems to need more these days; more air, more food, more sleep.

Of course he'll look into the anomalies soon. It _needs_ to be looked into; any disturbance in the Timeline can't be good, but thus far they have all been small. In the entirety of the Multiverse he can think of only three or four causes for what he's experiencing, and when he eliminates the options that are impossible in this universe, he's down to only one or two, one of which is far more likely than the other, and, conveniently far more benign.

Benign to everyone but him, at least.

+ - + - + - +

She sees John again two nights later when she joins her parents to attend the school play.

She arrives and meets Mum, Pete and Tony about fifteen minutes before the show is supposed to start. Mum drops Tony off with his classmates and they find their way into the auditorium where rows of chairs have been set up in front of the stage. The three of them find seats together, Pete and Mum are bickering over the plans for their annual Christmas party that's still over a month off, and Mum is trying to pull her into the debate, steadfastly refusing to accept her indifference on whether to hire a string quartet or a jazz trio. Rose alternately rolls her eyes at their deliberation and scans the room in search of John's modest frame until she finally spots him crouched down in front of the stage helping to set up the sound equipment. He stands up and she waves to catch his attention.

He sees her, makes his way over to where she's sitting and plops himself down in the empty seat next to hers.

"Feeling better, I see?" she greets him.

"Right as rain," he replies before leaning over her to address her parents. "Evening Mr. Tyler, Mrs. Tyler," and she's taken aback for the briefest of moments until it dawns on her that yes, of course he's met them before.

Mum and Pete wave a hello to him and Mum's gaze lingers over the two of them with a delighted and slightly devious upwards tug to her mouth before she turns back to Pete to continue the debate.

Rose is more than happy to remove herself from that conversation, so she turns back to John. "So what've you all cooked up for us tonight?" she asks him, nodding towards the stage.

He gives a toss of his head and his eyes light up and she thinks he's even more excited than the kids. "We will be performing our theatrical rendition of _Hansel and Gretel_," he replies with feigned pretension. "The kids have had a brilliant time constructing the scenery, especially with the oven, everyone wanted a turn…"

At that moment a woman – the prim and proper teacher with the sensible shoes that she met on the schoolyard the other day – leans over to tap him on the shoulder. "Dr. Smith," she says. He turns to look at her. "We'll be starting in about five minutes."

He nods and turns back to Rose who's gaping at him in astonishment.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Why did she call you Dr. Smith?"

He shoots a glance over at the stage and twitches in his seat. "It's my name," he confirms, but there's a wariness in his tone she hasn't heard from him before.

"_Doctor_ Smith?"

He sighs. "I have a PhD," he informs her like it's a reluctant confession of a dirty secret. "Mind you, it's in a field that's _entirely_ unrelated to teaching seven-year-olds but try telling that to the pompous, stuffy fusspots in charge of this place." He rolls his eyes and puts on a mock voice. "We, the dull men in grey suits must seize upon every imaginable opportunity to impress the parents and public at large with the credentials of our staff, and we will harp upon even the most irrelevant certification in detail so stultifyingly unnecessary, it'll make your head bleed."

_Six years_, she thinks – six years he's been teaching; that's what he had told her and it had never occurred to her to ask what he'd done before that. She gives an incredulous laugh. "What's it in?"

"Geophysics," he replies with a yawn.

"You're a scientist?"

"Used to be," he says, correcting her with an inflection that fails at being playful. He sits back in the chair and folds his arms over his chest. "Yes, I used to be part of that society known as 'academia' comprised of a bunch of blowhards who do nothing all day but sit around navel-gazing, studying the world for their own self-aggrandisement, all the while living inside their respective bubbles and doing their best to keep anything truly real at arms' length."

"But why – why'd you give it up?"

A shadow falls over his face as he glances over at the stage where a group of teachers are convening. He places his hands on the chair in front of him in a motion towards getting up before turning to her. "I'll tell you – I will," he assures her, leaning in and speaking low. "But later. Not here." He gets to his feet and looks down at her, passes over her to wave at her parents. "I'll see you after the show," he says to the three of them, and then he's gone.

She turns to Mum and immediately rolls her eyes at the look of delight that greets her. "You didn't tell me you had a new bloke," Mum accuses.

"I haven't, Mum," she denies in a singsong voice. She hopes she's not blushing; doesn't think she is. "He's just a friend."

Mum nudges Pete with her elbow. "That's what she said about the last one – all three of them."

She's saved from all further forms of snarky scrutiny when the headmistress appears on the stage, the audience falls silent and the show begins.

The first performance is an abbreviated version of _Beauty and the Beast_, with an alarmingly boisterous eight-year-old boy playing the role of the beast, and a series of girls taking turns at playing Beauty, each one dressed in a gown frillier than the last.

Next up is Tony's class, and the small players commence their rendition of _Hansel and Gretel_ in quiet, halting voices that she strains to hear as she searches the stage for their teacher. She's just about to conclude that he must be backstage giving them cues when the Witch makes her appearance in the story, and she knows right away that it's him.

So does everyone else. She smiles to herself as the audience and students alike all dissolve into peals of laughter at the spectre of a false-hook-nosed hag decked out all in black with the big, booming voice of a grown man. The story resumes, concludes amidst nonstop giggles and it's clear that each and every one of his pupils is at least a little bit enamoured of him.

Following the performance there's a reception where the parents mill about, chatting over children and homework, sports and music lessons, and the kids eat all the snacks they can get their hands on. Rose finds Tony, praises him for his performance and his face lights up as he drags her to the stage and shows her the parts of the scenery that he painted.

She finds Mum and Dad again, spends some time tagging along with them, but the conversations about school and children she doesn't know begin to wear. She searches the room in a quest for some better conversation but comes up empty; she'd spotted John earlier, still in costume with a swarm of parents and kids milling about him, but now there's no sign of him.

She thinks about leaving, but instead she finds herself wandering the empty hallways. The sight of the darkened corridors brings to mind the times when she and Shireen broke into the school at night to play pranks; the one time they were caught and Mum had to be called away from work early to come pick her up, and the torrent of Jackie-ire that had been unleashed on her as a result.

She remembers the days of cigarettes in the girls' toilets; of discovering boys, and before that, playing dolls with her friends, and then it hits her that soon she's going to be on the other end of all this. Soon she's going to be a Mum herself.

The hallways are dark, but she sees a dim light up ahead. She almost turns the other way but she decides to press on and she's rewarded when she finds that the light coming from John's classroom.

She pokes her head in. "You escaped," she observes. The room is mostly dark, the only light a small desk lamp that illuminates the stack of papers on the desk where John is sitting and working.

He looks up at the sound of her voice. "Just finishing up a few things here – they'll need help cleaning up shortly so I thought I'd wait a bit."

She sidles up to his desk alongside where he's sitting in order to look over his shoulder at the papers he's grading – spelling homework by the looks of it. "You're out of costume," she teases, reaching out to give a tug at his collar.

He chuckles. "Are you sure about that?"

"It was quite a show," she says, moving some books aside and hopping up to sit on the desk. "The kids did a great job; they really looked like they were having fun." She picks up a book – a copy of _The Wizard of Oz_ – and opens it in her lap. "They obviously love you," she adds, flipping through the pages.

"The feeling's mutual." He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. "Come here," he says, offering his hand to her. She questions him with her gaze even as her fingers slip in with his. "I want to show you something," he explains.

She obliges, sliding off the desk and setting the book down as he pulls her over to a corner of the room where the small desk light only barely reaches. There's a row of pictures hanging on the wall, all drawn on black paper; some done in plain white, some with swirling colours.

She stands at his side as he points to one that's simply sketched with thin lines and sparse colour, showing two stick figures, hand-in-hand, standing on a purple planet. One has long yellow hair; the other has wild dark hair. "Our art project yesterday was to draw space," he says. "I found this one particularly interesting."

"Whose is it?" she asks, though she already knows the answer.

He gazes at her directly to confirm the suspicion, looks at her under raised eyebrows, his head turned to her, ducked slightly. "Your brother idolizes you," he says gently.

Her shoulders and body soften with unshed tears and she's certain he can feel it through their clasped hands. She runs her finger over the taller stick figure. "He idolized him too," she whispers. "Eventually all idols have to fall from grace."

"I don't believe that," he counters and now there's intensity in his voice, a brightness in his eyes that's almost religious. His fingers unlace from hers and wrap her whole hand tightly, adamantly. "This is why I teach the young ones – their minds, their imaginations are utterly unbounded by the rules of science or money or arbitrary laws. _Anything_ is possible to them – absolutely anything, and it's my job to teach them to direct that energy; to harness it." He shakes his head. "Too many of my colleagues focus on teaching that very structure that kills the imagination, but I truly believe that it doesn't have to die. We can grow up and, yes, perhaps we will come to accept our heroes as fallible human beings, but that doesn't make their deeds any less heroic."

He's looking straight into her, and there's shadows cast from the street lights outside touching his lips, threading through his hair, flickering in his eyes as he speaks, so passionately. "Anyone who pushes the limits of what's possible is a hero in my book."

She tucks her hair behind her ear, uses it as an excuse to free her hand from his as she traces the outline of the planet with her other hand. "What if you found out that it all really was true?" she asks, darting a glance at him that's half hidden under her lifted hand. "What if anything _is_ possible? Other planets and aliens and fairies and werewolves? What if you found out that it was all real?" It's a question that's hardly hypothetical, thinly disguised as hypothetical perhaps, but once the words are out of her mouth, she knows that it's also a test.

"Ah, but there's the rub," he muses, turning so that he can lean a shoulder on the wall casually as he fixes her with a gaze that's anything but casual. "If anything is possible, if the fantastical can be real, that means that the monsters can be real too." His eyes travel over her shoulder and find a spot beyond her and for a moment he's far away. Then he nods towards the pictures. "Children understand that," he adds.

"And then the monsters turn out to be worse than anything ever imagined." She's speaking in a hush, finds her fingers brushing his arm, travelling up to grasp above his elbow. "Much worse, in fact," she adds darkly, and she means to stop there, but more words spill out of her. "It's how I met him."

Muscles tighten under her touch and he looks away. "You were involved with the Cybermen," he assumes.

Of course that's what he assumes; it's been over a decade in this universe since Lumic's creations were unleashed and the scars left are still deep and raw. "Yeah," she says. It feels like she's lying to him – again – because he's assuming that's how she met the Doctor but really the one has nothing to do with the other, so she adds, "Among other things. There was always something with him – a monster to fight or some menace to escape from."

"And he hasn't stopped running." There's scorn in his voice and she knows it shouldn't be directed at her, but he's not looking at her so she's not quite sure.

"How could he stop?" she asks. "How can anyone stop? After seeing what's out there, after living it and fighting it and seeing people die, how can anyone just go back to an ordinary life?"

"You don't go back," he instructs, as if he knows, as if he's been there himself and for the first time she thinks that maybe he has. The layers to him just keep unravelling like that. "You change, you adapt. You incorporate your experiences and you do something about them. There are amazing things to be seen everywhere, every day and there are always monsters to be fought. You don't stop, you never stop. You learn to make it happen; you seek out and find the adventures instead of waiting for them to find you."

Her hand is still on his arm and as he speaks he reaches out underneath to grip her forearm in turn, pulling her closer to him without thinking. Their bodies separated by a whisper, she feels the breath on his lips as he speaks, as his mouth forms the words in front of her and she gapes at him, wondering how she ever could've thought there was anything simple about this man. "Is that what you did?" she breathes. "When you became a teacher? Is that why?"

His eyes fall closed and his breath pauses. Finally he releases his hold on her as he exhales and looks out the window. "I was a scientist," he begins and there's a crease between his eyes as he speaks. "I was conducting research at the university, when..." He breaks off and the sentence is left incomplete and enormous, reverberating with unspoken thoughts. Her arm hangs awkwardly by her side, left cold where he was grasping it. He breathes again and speaks anew. "I came into work one day and…" he shakes his head. "I just couldn't do it anymore. Spending ten or more hours a day on minerals and tectonic plates and data on computers – that's not living, and it's certainly not contributing anything to the world."

"Just like that?" she asks pointedly because she's an expert on telling a story without the vital details; she can certainly recognise when someone else is doing it to her – and clumsily at that.

But her hold on him is gone, and his eyes have left her as he glances out the window. "More or less," he replies vaguely, nodding out to the darkened car park. "Looks like just about everyone is gone."

Then again, maybe his skill at evading the question is better than she thought, because that's when he turns away and goes to the closet where his head disappears as he rummages around inside. He retrieves something and starts towards the door that leads out to the hallway and she sees that it's a football in his hands. He drops it and bounces it off each knee before letting it fall to the floor, where he dribbles it between his feet, keeping it in constant motion. "Rose Tyler," he says, with a cheeky grin. "Ever play any football?" His eyes gleam as he hops in anticipation, egging her on, daring her, and she could press him to fill in the blanks he's leaving out, but that would dampen the exuberance in his eyes and kill the playful grin on his face and she can't bring herself to do it.

So she touches her tongue to her teeth and matches his grin with a taunting smile. "As a matter of fact," she informs him, "I played in school. My team won the championship four out of five years." She clicks her tongue. "You are going _down_."

She springs forward and he pauses for a fraction of a second, allowing her time to catch up, and then they're scrambling down the hallway, a jumble of feet and arms and bodies feinting at each other in all directions. She steals the ball from him, blocks him from recapturing it once, twice, until he succeeds and with a cry of triumph he kicks it hard through the doors to the auditorium that have become the de facto goal.

They watch it roll away and only then do they notice that they're not alone. Four other teachers are busying themselves with cleanup in the huge room and Rose sees that one of them is watching them, looking alarmed. She looks and finally notices that the ball is rolling rapidly on a collision course with several open bottles of leftover juice sitting on the floor.

The woman makes a leap for it but she's too far away. The ball collides, spilling juice all over the floor in an orange and purple mess, and then John is there, roaring with laughter as he grasps her arms from behind and leans his forehead on her shoulder.

+ - + - + - +

Fifteen minutes or so later he's finished mopping up the mess, the chairs are all put away and all that remains is one table strewn with paper plates, crumbs, crumpled plastic cups and leftovers, so John tells everyone else that he'll finish up.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye as he says it, and she knows he's wondering if she'll stay.

She stays.

He collects the remainder of the rubbish and she puts the remaining biscuits together into one container. When he disappears to take the rubbish out, she finds a bag of clean plastic cups and pours them both some juice from one of the bottles that was spared from their ill-fated football match.

He returns, strolling slowly over to her and she extends her hand, offering him a cup. He takes it, clinks it with hers and takes a sip. "It's always so strange to see this place dark and empty," he sighs. "Like it's alive, but something vital is missing – a brain or a heart or something." He trails off, looking up and around in all directions. "Then again, some days have me so knackered that the quiet is wonderful. It's like finding peace after a battle, like coming home."

She slumps back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling and suddenly she's thinking of another darkened school in another universe overrun by bat-lizard creatures taking the forms of teachers by day. That night from years ago in another universe feels like yesterday; she can almost hear Mickey's voice echoing from down the hall. She wonders if she'll ever stop missing him; hopes not. "You know, when I was small," she turns to him, "I used to think the teachers slept in school."

"Well, sometimes they do," he replies, taking another sip, "but more often it's the students." He leans back against the wall next to her and slides down until he's sitting on the floor, stretches his legs out in front and crosses them.

She follows suit and now they're sitting side by side and his sleeve brushes against her bare arm as he leans his head on the wall and turns to her. "What did you want to be when you were small?" he asks.

She chuckles mildly. "A pop singer," she replies.

There's not a lot that surprises him, but somehow this does. "I hadn't pictured you as the 'pop-music-hair-and-makeup' type," he comments and it unnerves her, how closely he's studying her – has she really become so inscrutable, so far removed from normal society?

So she tries to explain. "Growing up, it was just me and Mum, there wasn't much money for anything posh. I was a pretty typical kid, I guess – nothing interesting or special about my life. I got into a little trouble I guess – before I dropped out of school. But really, there wasn't much to look forward to in that sort of life. Just pipe dreams – bigger-than-life kinds of stupid dreams like being a singer and all."

"What changed?" he asks, shifting slightly so he's a little closer to facing her. "Did your father come back?"

"Nah, that was later," she replies. "No, it was when I met _him_; that's what got me out of the old life."

He looks away, looks up at the ceiling searching for something he doesn't find there. "He changed everything for you," he observes, his tone soft and miles away.

"That's putting it mildly." The floor is not entirely clean and it's cold and hard under her bum, so she scoots up a bit, bends her knees, placing her feet flat down. Her arm no longer touches his and she's not sure who moved away first. "What about you?" she asks him in return.

For a moment his eyes cloud over and he almost looks puzzled as if she'd asked him something terribly difficult, or terribly personal, but then the blue clears and she thinks she's misread him; he's merely tired. "A scientist," he replies wryly.

He punctuates the comment with a full stop that's tangible even though it's silent, and then there's a swift change of subject. He gets to his feet abruptly and decisively, spins on his heels, his hand in his hair. "I'll go get the lights," he says, nodding towards a corner of the room before heading in that direction.

She watches him in silent uncertainty. Clearly he's not going to tell her what happened – not tonight anyway, and the thought that he's not sharing it with her – _won't_ share it with her – ought to make her feel better about the things she hasn't told him.

It ought to, but it doesn't.

Instead, where there should be easing, she feels a dull ache, as if coming back for a piece of cake she'd been too full to eat earlier and finding it gone. The feeling nags at her and something about it annoys her, strikes her as small and petty and she wants to brush it away like an ant crawling up her leg.

He flips the switches and the auditorium is darkened, lit only by the emergency lights and the glow from the hallway that spills through the double doors and stops just a few yards in. "Be right back," he says to her, turning through the door. "Left my coat in the classroom; I'll just go fetch it," he calls back to her as he goes.

He's gone before she can protest or say anything at all, not even to remind him that she's left her coat in his room as well. She considers a mad dash to catch up with him but doesn't think she'll be welcomed right now. However unintentionally, she's pressed a button in him, triggered something that he doesn't like triggered and so she lets him go; allows him the moment of privacy.

When he returns he's carrying both their coats slung over one arm. He sets them down over the back of a lone chair near the doorway and comes over to her, and he's not smiling but he's not troubled any more either; mostly he just looks fatigued. She thinks she can help with that. She springs to her feet and rocks back and forth from heel to toe and it's her turn to offer him a dare. "Fancy a climb?" she asks, nodding to the climbing structure that's folded against the wall. "Chance of a lifetime – we've got it all to ourselves." She turns and breaks into a run and leaps onto the climbing frame at top speed where she quickly scales her way to the top. "Jericho Street Junior School under-7s gymnastics team – bronze medal, you're looking at right here," she mock-boasts to him from the top rung of the ladder.

He just stands still like a wind-battered stone, watching her.

His lethargy has the opposite effect on her; she needs to move, she needs to laugh, she needs to run. The stillness of the night is looming and everything in her is protesting in a burst of energy in her gut that's verging on a mania.

But he's not cooperating, so she feels silly dangling atop the ladder. She scales back down and her feet hit the floor and she reaches out to bring him into her insanity. "Give us a hand, will you?" she asks him, tugging at the climbing frame in an effort to unfold it from the wall. "I haven't shown off my forward flip in years."

"Rose, it's time to be getting on," he informs her gently.

Despite his words, he steps nearer, so she takes it as encouragement - or at least permission, so she persists in trying to unfold the structure.

And then she gives an especially hard yank, slips and tumbles backwards.

She's prevented from falling onto her bum by strong arms that are suddenly around her, lifting her up and setting her to her feet. It happens so fast that he's enfolding her even before she's realised she's lost her balance, and certainly long before she's regained it.

He holds her to steady her, arms encircling her waist, her back pressed against his chest until she finds her footing. She steadies and her hands go instinctively to meet his, sliding over skin and long fingers that are pressed protectively against her stomach.

He doesn't let go.

Neither does she.

His arms loosen around her, defining the difference between holding her up and just holding her. His hands move under hers, ease their grasp to turn, rise up to cover hers; to press them against her abdomen that's suddenly fluttering in a rapid rhythm that matches her heart, matches his breath that's warm on her neck.

Its human bodies sharing human heat and contact; its light and darkness – warm, welcoming light touched gently by familiar shadows. The heat has them frozen in place; rapid heartbeats commingling to slow movement and thought until there's nothing there but this moment. Here and now; that mysterious point in time that's still unexplored, so foreign to her.

Finally he speaks. "Rose, you need to be more careful," he says huskily into her ear. He releases hold on her, sliding fingers over knuckles, moving sleeves over bare arms and then she's released and his warmth no longer enfolds her.

With the chill comes the awkwardness. She turns and throws him a furtive glance, finds him staring into her until he's found out, and both sets of eyes dart away. She can feel her brow furrow but all she can do is laugh, so she gives a nervous giggle and then a flustered agreement even though she's only vaguely aware of what she's agreeing to. "Yeah, 'spose so," she says, and one more glance at his face – creased and shadowed and slightly pained speaks volumes.

She flees.

She turns hastily towards the door. "I guess I'll be heading home," she says, moving towards the chair where her coat is slung over the back before pivoting to face him again. There's a safe distance between them now; she can meet his gaze without being stared down; without him seeing straight into her, so she gives a faltering smile and says, "I had a nice time." It's an understatement, but if ever there was a time for understatements, it's now. "The kids – they were great," she adds.

"Good night, Rose," he says softly, gathering up the leftovers as he says it, looking down at the floor so she's not sure if the tone of disquiet in his voice is matched in his face.

_tbc_


	11. Chapter 11: Machinations and Mickey

**Chapter 11: Machinations and Mickey**

+ - + - + - +

The drive home is filled with flashing headlights in her face and cars driving too fast on the motorway; with wild thoughts in her head that she matches by honking her horn more often that necessary and turning the music up as loud as she can stand it.

And then she's home in the silence of her flat with nothing standing between her and her thoughts, and she collapses into bed, sobbing.

Through it all, she's still not sure why.

But that's a lie of course; the most obvious of lies – and yet not so much because the fear she's clinging to feels so frail, so flimsy it's like it's about to collapse from under her and she has no idea what will be left in its place.

+ - + - + - +

"_Run!" she can hear the Northern accent calling to her and then he reaches out a leather-clad arm to take her by the hand. They take off at a sprint and he leads her down the corridor and away from the monsters. She trips after him and she thinks she has something important to say to him, but the Krillitanes are chasing them from behind and she's running as fast as she can, but it isn't fast enough; was never fast enough and the harder she tries, the slower she goes. She looks down at her feet and now she understands because they're entangled and she's tripping through mounds of clothing and nappies and stacks of paperwork. _

_Then her hand is empty and he's going on ahead to safety without her. When he gets there, he turns to glare at her with his arms folded over his chest, and her feet are completely stuck in place now. _

"_I told you I don't do domestic," he bites at her._

_She panics and looks back at the monster that's closing in on her and the Krillitane has assumed its human form, only this face is one she knows. She gapes at the blue eyes and long chestnut hair as she shrinks back in horror._

_The last thing she hears is Mickey's voice sniggering at her, "I told you he was just like any other bloke."_

+ - + - + - +

She wakes up in tears, feeling like she's had no rest at all.

+ - + - + - +

When she gets to work in the morning, there's the weekly meeting with the Australians, there's some hullabaloo over a suspicious blight on the rice crops somewhere in Asia, and there's another status report from Nelson regarding the Time anomalies. He has very little news; he still can't find any common factors between the incidents of Time disturbances that the Time Monitor have detected. The only new information is regarding the five additional anomalies that have been detected since they last spoke.

No further suggestions have been made of calling the Doctor for help with this, but she knows it's only a matter of time.

They're meeting this afternoon to go over the details, so she makes her way to the west wing of the building where Pete's office is. His door is closed and a glance at her watch shows that she's a few minutes early, so she starts to wander. Before she knows it, she's at Mickey's old office and her hand is twisting the knob.

The door swings open and she scans the abandoned office, somehow expecting it to be different; papers moved about perhaps, or an extra pen left behind, but the hands of Time haven't touched a thing. It's been over a year since he went back to the primary Earth and she's promised Pete umpteen times that she's going to go through his belongings but she hasn't been able to bring herself to. She knows that there's really no hurry; Torchwood is certainly not hard up for space. Pete hasn't pressed her on the issue other than to email her periodically with a friendly reminder. And for all the awkwardness she's had with him – this man she's been thrown together with who looks just like her dad only he's never had a daughter and she's never had a father – well, somehow he knows her well enough on this point to tread lightly and her heart swells with gratitude to him for this one favour.

She shuts the door behind her and collapses into the chair behind Mickey's desk.

She remembers the late nights they used to spend here; she, Mickey and Jake, sorting out the latest alien menace, or troubleshooting problems with the Dimension Cannon. The two of them worked almost as hard as she did, and there were many late nights and weekends that the three of them spent here. It became an unspoken rule, a habit of theirs to congregate in Mickey's office whenever they were there past 9:00 in the evening. Sometimes it would be a working meeting, sometimes a short break for a few friendly words, and sometimes one of them would come prepared with a bottle of Scotch or some equally potent drink to share and the next hours would be spent in the company of friends, playing cards and sharing jokes and gibes that they could only tell to each other.

"…_couldn't believe this alien covered in puce-green fur, the height of my waist and about twice as wide had the nerve to tell _me_ I smelled bad…"_

"… _all I did was pass her my drink, but apparently that's equivalent to a marriage proposal on Intuso. I swear her father was ready to come at me with a machete when I told her…"_

The memories echo in her mind as she pulls open the top drawer of his desk and rifles through the items. There are pens and pencils, note paper, some photos, and an assortment of magazines, and then she finds his iPod under a file folder and sticks the ear buds in her ears. She turns it on to the strains of Linkin Park and the music brings a sad smile to her face.

She rummages through some more scraps of paper with his handwriting scrawled all over them and some scattered photos of him with his Gran. Then she finds one of herself with Mickey and Jake in a pub, and she swallows back the tears as the memory comes flooding back.

+ - + - + - +

It had been August, about three years back and the Dimension Cannon project had been on hold for about four months due to the looming threat posed by a band of aliens from the Galecian Cluster who had been exerting their mind-control powers over factory workers in several locations across the country. It wasn't clear what they were after, precisely; only that the influence they held over their victims was absolute, and if they were permitted to continue unchecked, there was no telling what the consequences might be. All of Torchwood had been working feverishly on efforts to negotiate and failing that, to find some way to block their mind-controlling influence.

All cordial overtures had been ignored, so the Torchwood scientists had developed a device that would – hopefully – obstruct the creatures' brain-wave transmissions so they would finally be on even footing in a confrontation. Rose, Mickey and Jake were sent to Coventry to test it all out.

The operation had started off smoothly enough, but ran into a snag when one of the Galecians managed to secure a hostage. Rose volunteered to take the place of the terrified woman, and things were rather touch and go for a while as the creature held a laser weapon to her head and demanded their immediate and unconditional surrender.

She was frightened. She had truly feared for her life, and for all the terrifying aliens she'd encountered over the years, all the combat she'd seen, all the broken bones and bruises, it was really quite rare that she reached the point where she thought she might actually _die_.

So when Mickey surprised the creature from behind and knocked it unconscious, she collapsed into his arms and held on tight and she thought that he had never felt so warm and strong before.

She saw him with new eyes after that. The three of them went out to celebrate their victory that night, and she kept finding her gaze returning to him as he traded gibes with Jake; as he slammed a hand down on the table in laughing indignation at the other man even as he threw a wink in her direction; as he flirted impishly with the waitress while ordering them all a round of drinks. He was still Mickey – down-to-earth, gentle and fun Mickey, and yet there was something about him that was fundamentally different; in the way he carried himself, in the set to his jaw that wasn't hard and confrontational like Rickey's had been, but had a firmness and strength, and a _humanity_ – really, there was no other word for it – that he positively exuded.

And like gravity, like the sunrise in the morning, it had just sort of happened.

It started innocently enough – an arm brushing past him to pick food off his plate, his sleeve touching her skin as he reached for the salt. A jumble of legs and feet under the table fighting playfully to match the taunting gibes the three of them were trading concerning the day's excitement.

By the time her hand found his under the table, their fingers twined together and rested on his knee, she knew what was going to happen next and she knew it was both inevitable and right.

When Jake decided to go chat up the blonde sitting at the bar, they took the opportunity to excuse themselves.

Hand in hand, no questions asked or answered or even thought of on either part, she and Mickey found their way to her hotel room. The door clicked behind them and without a word, they drew together and her lips found his. His arms held her tightly to him as they tasted each other and it was like tasting a favourite food – a familiar dish with a new spice added to bring out flavours and nuances previously unnoticed.

His fingers tangled in her hair, his tongue matched hers thrust for thrust as their combined mass of legs and arms, hot mouths and heaving bodies edged over to the bed. He stumbled backwards against the bed frame, a tiny jolt that sent her pressing harder up against him. Their chins bumped, teeth clicked, her hands found his hips and didn't let go.

And then she was taken completely by surprise when he pulled away.

Their lips separated with a smack and his eyes were still closed; she could feel his warm breath against the wetness he'd left behind on her lips. His hands clutched her face; held it there firmly so she could neither push forward nor away from him. "Rose," he murmured breathlessly. His lips edged closer and then paused with visible restraint.

Her hands left his hips to explore up and down his back. "What is it?" she asked, pushing out her chin, offering her mouth for more.

"Rose, no," he said, still holding her maddeningly at a distance even as his coarse voice and dark, dark eyes betrayed his desire and it only made her want him more.

"Yes," she countered. She thrust forward out of his grasp to press her lips to his, press them hard as she gave his shoulders a shove, pushing him down onto the bed. And in spite of his protests, he responded with a groan, his tongue stroking hers, his hips pressing up into her as she collapsed down on top of him.

She sat up, straddled him and reached down to undo his belt buckle, and suddenly his hands were around her wrists, stopping her again. "No," he said again, and this time there was firmness in his tone that wasn't there before. His eyes opened, flitted past her gaze to focus on something over her shoulder. "This isn't what you want, Rose."

His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, his skin on hers beckoned to her, at once familiar and so wonderfully new and he was _so_ wrong. "Yes it is," she insisted, teasing tongue between her teeth as she twisted her hands from his grasp and moved to lower herself again, to find his mouth, but he turned his face away, reached up to plant his hands on her waist and moved her aside.

He sat up, placed his feet firmly on the floor and turned to meet her gaze directly as she sprawled on the bed, deflated and confused. "Really?" he said defiantly, disbelievingly, with the faintest trace of hope that broke her heart in so many different ways. "This is _really_ what you want?" He looked down at the floor. "Rose, I'm not enough for you any more. Are you seriously telling me you're gonna give it all up – the Dimension Cannon, finding the Doctor – just to be with me – a regular old human? Mickey Smith, the idiot?"

"You're _not_ an idiot," she insisted with a pathetic vehemence that only served to emphasise her lack of it on all other counts.

He leaned his head back with a sigh. "Yeah, and that's how I know you don't really love me." She bit her lip as he turned to her and her silence confirmed it louder than anything she could've said. "It's OK," he said, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear. "I understand. I mean, nothing can compare with the Doctor. Once you've loved someone like him, you can't exactly go back, can you?"

She drew away from his touch, slid backwards to sit with her back against the wall. "Are you saying I think I'm too good for you?" she asked indignantly, folding her arms over her chest. "Cos I never..."

"I'm saying maybe you are." He pulled himself to his feet, stood over her as he spoke. "Maybe you really are too good for me. But either way, I know I'm not enough for you and I doubt any mortal human will ever be."

His eyes bored holes into her for an endless moment before he turned, gathered up his jacket and left.

+ - + - + - +

He was right; he was always so right about her and she's only just beginning to see it.

She dries her eyes, tucks the photo into her pocket and leaves his office just as she found it.

+ - + - + - +

The meeting with Pete concerns an increase in Rift disturbances over at the Cardiff office, and when he asks for volunteers to travel to Wales to investigate, she speaks up.

The change of scenery will be a welcome relief, and the fact that she'll be away for next Tuesday's school pickup is just a fringe benefit.

+ - + - + - +

She goes home to pack a bag, she phones Mum to tell her she won't be able to pick up Tony on Tuesday. She heats up some leftovers in the fridge for supper and by 7:00 she's back at the office where her team is ready to pile into the car for the drive to Cardiff.

The days that follow are comprised of endless investigation; painstaking analysis of data that tracks Rift activity – each and every item, alien or human that's fallen into or out of the Rift in the past month. There's been a measurable increase in Weevils, several highly localised weather phenomena including a blizzard covering a radius of a tenth of a mile; there's been a scribe from Mesopotamia who fell through from the year 1742 BC, there's been a spate of burglaries around Mermaid Quay – random items all made of stainless steel and all disappearing within an hour of a surge in Rift energy. There have been three university students who've disappeared, and two aliens of a previously unknown species, claiming to be from the Cormagian galaxy that appeared and demanded to be sent home again.

It all adds up to an increase in activity of about fifteen percent, and after five days of interrogations and data analysis that examines every factor from every imaginable viewpoint, the only thing they can safely conclude is that the problems started roundabout the same time that the Time Monitor started registering anomalies.

But Nelson has an idea, based on his study of the Time Monitor, and suggests that he might be able to construct a device to seal the Rift, or at least close it enough to reduce its activity to more normal levels. So after five days of tireless – and mostly fruitless labour, they return to London, procure Nelson the items on his list of requested supplies, and leave him to it.

+ - + - + - +

She returns home, and everything is exactly how she left it.

She drops her bags on the floor with a sigh, removes her coat, hangs it up and goes straight into the kitchen to fix herself a cuppa. She fills the kettle, starts it heating and while she waits she finds her mobile on the table – deliberately left behind for the trip – and switches it on to check her messages.

There's two waiting for her, and her stomach flips over, tied up in nervous knots as she wonders who they're from.

The first one plays and it's Mum; something about dinner next week and a necklace she wants to borrow for an upcoming society function. She rolls her eyes and moves on to the second, and it's a call from Dr. Marwood's receptionist, reminding her of her prenatal appointment this Thursday.

Her stomach unwinds even as it seems to bottom out; anticipation left unsatisfied is both welcome and infuriating because neither one of them has called her.

She sighs, brings her tea into the living room and settles in on the sofa. She switches on the telly while she ponders it all, and her mind is awhirl with mixed feelings. She switches off the phone, ensuring that no calls will come, flips a few channels on the telly and soon she succeeds in distracting herself as she's engrossed in the latest instalment of _Britain's Got Talent._

+ - + - + - +

Its 2:47AM when she wakes up on the couch, the telly still on with an infomercial for an exercise machine that promises to help her shed twenty pounds effortlessly, all for the low price of thirty quid. She switches it off, drags herself up from the sofa, makes her way back to her bedroom and crawls under the covers to sleep for the rest of the night.

+ - + - + - +

The next day, she's still twitching with nervous energy, unable to focus on anything or anyone at work, so it's almost a godsend when an emergency situation arises. There are three Weevils being kept in confinement at the London location, brought there from Cardiff so they can be studied, and it seems that one of them has escaped.

She and Jake are assigned to go chase it down, and quickly they convene to get rifles and tracking equipment. In the flurry of activity she notices him glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, and she realises that this is the first time they've been out on assignment together since Mickey left. Jake has been working mostly on research projects in the office lately so their paths haven't crossed much.

She hands him a rifle and notices how quiet he is as he takes it from her, so she tries to lighten things up a bit. "You remember how it works, right?" she teases – tries to – as she clicks a playful tongue at him and jabs at him with the safe end of the rifle.

He frowns at her like he's confused before noticing her grin. He gives a weak laugh that doesn't ease the awkwardness at all. "Yeah," he replies, slightly sheepishly. "I remember."

They make their way down the stairs and out the south exit to the building and he asks her about the trip to Cardiff – she has to give him credit for trying – but her answer is terse; the space between them left by Mickey is too large to be filled.

So they proceed on together in silence.

And then suddenly John's voice is in the back of her mind, admonishing her for this unnecessary risk; reminding her that she should be taking care of herself and the life she's carrying. It's a ridiculous battle she's waging in her head because somehow he's become the voice of her conscience, and she resents it. It's not what she wants to hear right now; he obviously doesn't want to call her, so she's certainly not going to allow him any say in what she does.

She pushes aside the reproach and sets her mind to the task at hand.

Jake goes up ahead and when he rounds the corner he calls back to her, motioning towards an abandoned building to the left. She dashes over in the direction, signals to him to enter by the side door as she moves to enter by the front.

The door is locked, but the condition of the wood and the hinges indicate that a good kick should be sufficient, so she swings her leg at it, and she's gratified when the lock splinters easily from its screws. It swings open and she aims her rifle as she steps inside, taking a sweep of the enormous room from right to left. She finds no sign of the creature, but the rat infestation is more than evident as she steps back from the scuttle of creatures around her ankles. A particularly large one scurries past her, causing her to jump backwards, but then she hears a cry from the other end of the room, and Jake is there, running towards her and calling out a warning.

She turns to her left but she's too late; the massive blur of teeth and wrinkled skin is in her face, knocking her to the ground.

She hits concrete with a sickening thud and everything goes black.

_tbc_


	12. Chapter 12: Earthquakes and Edification

Chapter 12: Earthquakes and Edification

A special shout-out to lorelaisquared for her help with the final scene in this chapter, which I struggled with horribly. She saw my rough draft of it months ago, after I had scrapped the first two attempts and came up with this, and her feedback was very valuable in putting and keeping me on the right track.

Many thanks, as always, to my fabulous beta MizJoely and my awesome beta imzadimylove.

+ - + - + - +

He's in Casablanca, the city of Bogart and Bergman, where everybody has a Bogart story, only his comes from personal experience, and it involves clam chowder, an accordion, and aliens from the planet Albaratz who feed on the hair of certain sentient species.

The bloke to his right is just inebriated enough that he can share his story and not get stared at in return like he's off his rocker.

The redhead to his left isn't inebriated at all, but as he's just spent the day rescuing her family from some body-snatchers from the Menja Cluster – fairly standard stuff, really – well, she's probably more inclined to believe his tales than most.

He's not entirely sure why she's still here, come to think of it; her mother in particular was quite shaken by the day's excitement. He figured she'd want to be with them to settle things down, but instead she's still here with him.

Here, by the way, is a classic Casablanca club, where he's sitting at the bar with a pint of lager and a plateful of chips, because he's found that something about eating potatoes seems to lessen the effects of – well, whatever it is that's affecting him.

Thankfully, chips are almost universally available on Earth in the twenty-first century.

He holds one up and examines it. "It's brilliant," he muses, nodding a thanks to the bartender who's just delivered another round of drinks. "A rather unremarkable tuber from Peru that a few Spanish sailors brought to Europe; a few years later it was feeding entire armies and its crops accounted for a full third of arable land in Ireland, and now it's so ubiquitous that there's hardly a place you can go and not be able to order a plate of chips." He sips his drink and winks over at the redhead.

"To the potato," she offers, holding up her glass to clink with his.

He clicks his tongue and obliges, then holds his glass out to the bloke on the right to include him, but apparently he's still stuck on the previous subject because he's rambling on about hair – straight hair, curly, kinky, blonde, black – all types are abundant in a city such as Casablanca.

The redhead giggles uncontrollably at this and grabs his shoulder as if holding herself up. Just as she does, there's a twinge to his ear and Time folds over so that the besotted bloke on his right is back on his rant about hair. The girl's touch to his shoulder is gone and he startles in his seat like a seasick puppy at the sudden shift.

It's disorienting as hell.

The girl gives a laugh. "Are you all right?" She sidles up next to him, leaning over the bar and under his face to look up and bat her eyelashes at him.

"Oh yes," he dismisses. "I'm always all right." He slides his arm out from under her grasp and swings his chair around.

"So how long are you staying in Morocco?" the girl asks, sinking back into her seat as she looks at him sideways.

"Not long, not long," he replies vaguely. "Got some business to get back to in London." he tries to sound urgent about it but it's been two weeks now that he's been 'getting back to it' and he doesn't even believe himself any more.

"Important business?" she asks.

He nods. "Rather important, I'd say," he mulls as he runs a hand through his hair. "Well, important to a few, anyway. Well, really just one person and she's quite capable of managing on her own." The ground under him seems to wobble again and he turns his seat back round and bites down on another chip. "The way things are going, she may have to." _No point in going back_, he doesn't say.

"Why's that?" she asks.

"I'm ill," he says, and apparently an uncooperative mouth is another symptom he needs to contend with. He doesn't elaborate because he can't, nor does he want to. Oh, he can make all sorts of conjectures, dire predictions about where this is headed because he knows what his gut is telling him, but with this half-human body all bets are off – and there's no point in alarming a total stranger about it anyway.

But apparently he _has_ alarmed her because when he looks at her, her eyes are wide and her body tense, and it's not long after that that she excuses herself to use the loo and doesn't return.

The bloke to his right is passed out, snoring loudly with his head on the bar.

He orders another round of chips and eats them in silence.

+ - + - + - +

Rose wakes up in a fog.

Her eyes flutter open and she's confused at the unfamiliar surroundings; confused at why her head hurts so much and her eyelids feel so heavy.

There's a figure in white moving nearby and it's getting closer and then a woman's face is smiling down at her. "Miss Tyler, you're going to be all right. You're in Albion Hospital, you took a nasty fall, and you've got a concussion and a fractured wrist. You might feel a bit woozy, but that's fine, it's just the pain medication."

There's something nagging at her, something she thinks she should be mentioning but her head won't clear and her eyes won't stay open. "Jake?" she murmurs.

"Your friend is fine," the nurse informs her. "He stepped out for a short bit but he said he'd be back in about an hour to check on you."

Something's missing, she knows, but she can't get the pieces to add up in her groggy head. "Doctor?" she asks.

"The doctor's been by, Miss Tyler. You'll get a chance to meet with him later. Now try and get some sleep."

Her eyelids are so heavy and she can't fight it any longer. They fall shut and she no longer has any choice in the matter.

+ - + - + - +

She awakens and she's alone in the room. The sun is shining brightly through the window and she looks round, taking it all in.

She spots a chair next to the bed where some of her belongings sit. She reaches over, searching with her hand for her mobile. Her body feels loose and clumsy as she moves; presumably the lingering effect of the pain medication.

She locates her phone, flips it on: 10:42 in the morning.

She slumps back down in bed and tries to recall what happened to land her in here, but the last thing she can remember is climbing out of the car with Jake. Obviously something went wrong with the Weevil.

She looks down at the hand that's empty, flexes her fingers, stretches her legs and wiggles her toes, and then suddenly she remembers the vital point she's been struggling with. Immediately she reaches for the buzzer to call the nurse.

In a moment the white-clad woman is in the doorway. "What is it, Miss Tyler?"

"I'm pregnant," she informs her. "Is it – is everything..."

"It's all right," the woman assures her. "Your baby is fine and the medication is safe."

She leans her head back and closes her eyes. "Thank you," she says.

The nurse departs and she's alone with her thoughts again. Idly, she pushes some buttons on her phone and reads the call history. And before she even knows what she's doing, she's dialling and the phone is ringing.

There's a click on the other end and his soft voice answers, "Hello?" and now she's frozen like a deer in the headlights because she realises she hadn't expected him to be home.

"John?" she stammers.

There's a pause and an intake of breath. "Rose."

"I, erm, I just thought," she sputters and suddenly she sees herself as if she were watching from afar and something about it strikes her funny. She begins to chuckle as her mind tries to form words that her tongue won't cooperate with. "I was wondering," she begins again, before losing herself to more giggles. Finally she resorts to what she really wants to ask. "Why are you home?"

"Are you all right?" comes his puzzled voice from the other end.

"M'fine," she slurs. "Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Not on a Saturday," he replies and the conversation is so ridiculous – _she's_ so ridiculous that she's dissolving into peals of laughter now. "I should go," she hears him say and that's when reality hits her.

She sucks in a sharp breath, grabs a fistful of hair firmly and forces herself to sober up. "No," she protests. "M'sorry, I'm just a little woozy from the medication, I didn't mean to..."

Now she has his attention. "From _what_?"

"S'nothing," she assures him. "Just a little wrist fracture, so they gave me something to take the edge off, is all."

"Rose, where are you?" he demands, suddenly sounding like a stern schoolteacher for the first time.

"Albion Hospital," she replies and then adds before he can interject, "I'm fine. Just a concussion."

"I thought you said fractured wrist?"

"And a concussion," she adds, suppressing another giggle.

"What happened?" he demands, and it's almost a growl the way the intensity wraps the waver in his voice. "Never mind," he cuts her off before she can answer. "I'll be right there."

"You don't need..." she starts to object.

But it's too late; he's already hung up.

+ - + - + - +

By the time he arrives an hour later, she's fully sobered up, as it were, and she's thoroughly embarrassed at her performance on the phone.

Still, she's unprepared for the face that greets her when he walks into the room. His lips are pursed, eyes wide with a deep crease between them and the sight of him makes her sit up in bed in a gesture that's meant to show him she's all right, but also serves to steel herself against what's to come.

"You really didn't have to come," she objects before he has the chance to speak. "I'm so sorry about the phone call."

"Never mind that." He eyes her up and down and seems to relax. "What happened?" He stands there, halfway between her and the door as if undecided which direction to choose. He pushes his hands deep in his pockets awkwardly.

"It was nothing," she downplays. "Just work. A little bit of a chase that got out of hand." She gives a shake of her head; feels her hair brush her shoulders and suddenly she's self conscious about her appearance. Does the hospital gown look ridiculous on her? Is there any bruising on her face? She has no idea. "It happens," she shrugs finally.

"Happens a lot?" he asks and there's annoyance in his voice; a biting slash of a whip that matches his piercing eyes perfectly.

"It can," she shoots back defiantly, even though she knows where this is headed and she's not ready for it. It's coming either way. "It's no big deal."

"A concussion and a fractured wrist for a pregnant woman is a _very_ big deal, Rose," He sighs in exasperation, rolls his head and turns on his heels, just a little bit towards the door. "This doesn't sound like any sort of research job I've ever heard of."

He's glaring down at her now, and she knows he's trying to corner her into giving him some real answers – knows he _has_ cornered her but she makes one last ditch attempt to throw him off course with a story that offers just enough of the truth to throw him a bone. "There was a...rodent," she fumbles. "A special breed and it's our job to collect and study them. One of them got away and the chase just got a little out of hand, that's all."

His eyes fall closed and he sighs, not fooled for even a moment by her evasiveness and through the thick of her frustration, there's a part of her that's actually pleased that he's not easily taken in. "All right," he sighs calmly, ruefully. "I can see that you're fine, and since I'm not sure why I came here, I think it's time I was going."

He speaks with finality and now she knows why he hasn't called her; knows he wasn't going to call her. She watches him turn to leave and she knows it's wrong. "John," she says to his back before he's out of earshot.

He stops. Doesn't turn around.

It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him everything about herself; she _wants_ to tell him, she needs him to know her, but before she can form the words, the fear takes over and she throws a question at him instead. "Why did you come?"

His head turns slightly towards her. "Why did you call?" he volleys back, and she knows the answer is the same to both questions but there's too much in the way for either of them to say it out loud.

So she lays it aside and changes tactics. "What do you want from me?" she asks. It's meant as an offering, an opening up, but her choice of words is poor and her voice is guarded and he takes it as an accusation.

He turns back to her and the frustration is there because she's provoked it but the intensity of it still surprises her. "How about just the slightest bit of honesty?" he challenges. "You can start by telling me what you really do for work." She starts to reply but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand. "And once we've cleared that one up, you can tell me who this man is who's the father of your child, and what he is to you." He draws back at having said this and she knows that he's gone further than intended. He glances out the window, up at the ceiling letting the tension dissipate like steam out a valve before meeting her eyes again. "The truth, Rose. That's all I want."

It's the softness in his tone that undoes her; the ultimatum that stops short of being a plea and she breathes in, ready to tell him everything. But then the words form in her mind and she imagines his reaction and the fear takes over, again giving way to indignation at his pretence. "You should talk," she accuses.

His head snaps up, brow creased in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Why aren't you a scientist any more, John?"

It's a ridiculous question that's not a question at all; it's a demand, and it's way out of proportion because she's certain that she's got far more secrets than he has. _She_ called _him_, yet she's expecting him to prove something to her before she'll trust him, and she's sorry the moment the words are out of her mouth.

Still, there's a promise implicit in the appeal, and after his stricken face clears his gaze softens and her stomach flip-flops with reticence because she knows what this all means: they're letting each other in. It's something understood between them and then confirmed as he comes over to her bed, sits down next to her and raises a hand to touch her cheek, to test the waters with a gentle stroke down her face that sets her heart thumping and her eyes fluttering.

His hand falls to his side and then reaches for hers. He lays it on his knee, covers it protectively with his, and with a sigh he launches into his tale. "I was working on a grant," he begins, "in China some years ago. We were studying seismic waves in the lithosphere at university and it was the most intensely complex research I had ever done. Fifteen academics huddled in a room for twelve hours a day." His thumb absently strokes her knuckles and her fingers tighten slightly on his leg. "It's easy to look back now and tell you how bored I was, how disillusioned I was with academia, but that really wouldn't be honest. It was all I knew. And I was living in China so I told myself it was an adventure." He chuckles darkly. "And then it really was one."

He looks down at their clasped hands as he speaks and his hair falls over his face. She leans forward slightly, tilts her head in an effort not so much to see him but to let him know she can't. "What happened?"

"My partner and I were working in the field, collecting data when it hit." He turns to her. "An earthquake. We were right there – at the very epicentre."

She can see the echo of it in him; the depth of the fractured Earth and she feels her face form a look of horror. She needs to do something, to offer him something but all she can do is to turn her hand over and grasp his tightly as he continues.

"My partner was only a few yards away from me taking tilt meter readings when it hit. It was incredible, it happened so fast I had no idea what was going on – one second he was there, and then the earth opened up – _literally_ opened up and he was screaming like a madman as he fell. I was left gazing into this – this _schism_. Enormous, unfathomable and untempered; it was like looking into Infinity, about to swallow me up." He shudders.

She's certainly seen monsters before – ghosts and aliens and evil at work but still there's something about his tale that's remote and terrifying – the forces of nature acting at random for no real reason, literally shaking up his entire world with death and destruction. She shudders with him. "How did you survive?"

"I ran." His jaw tenses as he releases her hand and turns so that he's facing her, propping himself up with one hand on the bed between her legs, their bodies intersecting without touching. "Three days later I stumbled into a remote mountain village. I have no memory of what happened in between. I had a wound on my forehead so it's likely I was hit by some debris and suffered a concussion." He shakes his head, still confused at the gap in his memory. "I was one of the lucky ones," he adds, thankfulness tinged with survivor's guilt. "Perhaps _the_ luckiest one. The damage and death toll all around me was incomprehensible."

They're both silent as he looks down at his hand on the bed, turns to gaze out the window. She reaches for him, hesitates before touching fingers to the back of his hand. He doesn't acknowledge her touch but he doesn't move away either, so she slides her palm across to close her hand around his and she can feel his blood pulsing through the veins in his hand in the silence and space between the words.

Then he breathes deeply and he's back in the here and now as he turns to face her. "I didn't lie to you – before. Once I got back to the university, what I told you was true. I simply couldn't go back to it. After seeing life and death like that, I couldn't go back to a life of abstract thought and data analysis. So I walked away and decided I needed to do something in the real world. And I've always enjoyed children." He chuckles. "Charley says it's because I _am_ one."

"It's unusual," she muses. "A man working with young children."

"It's the most natural thing in the world," he replies. He lifts his free hand and gives her shoulder a nudge. "Your turn."

She laughs nervously. "There's just so much – a lot of this is going to sound pretty out there. 'S'why I didn't tell you before – I didn't want you to think I'm a lunatic."

He lifts his hand up off the bed and edges up so he's sitting closer to her. "There are worlds out there where the sky is burning," he muses poetically, "and the sea's asleep, and the rivers dream; people made of smoke and cities made of song." His eyes cloud over, he looks away and he seems flustered. "I think I heard that somewhere," he mutters before turning back to her with a smile. "Rose, the world has changed these past years since the Cybermen. Anything is possible. My mind is open."

"OK," she says with a sigh. She opens her mouth to speak and closes it again. "I don't know quite where to start." She draws her knees up and pulls them to her chest with her uninjured hand.

"Start at the beginning," he advises.

But to start at the beginning involves telling a tale of another universe and a Doctor different from the one who left her on the beach; different still from the father of her child and it's too much to begin with. So she swallows hard and decides to start with the easy part. "I work for Torchwood," she says.

His eyes widen and he nods in understanding. "Torchwood? You don't hear much about them these days since the Cybermen disappeared. Well, that explains a lot, I suppose."

"Yeah, we keep most of our work under wraps." Her broken wrist begins to throb and she tenses her arm in response.

His brow furrows. "There's enough to – you know – keep you busy?"

She nods, deciding to leave it at that and tackle the harder question. "_He_ used to work with us too," she says softly.

"Does _he_ have a name?" John asks pointedly.

She laughs bitterly. "The simplest of questions about him and I can't even answer you. Last I heard, he was going by 'Boris' but that's just the latest in a long string. He can't make up his mind."

Now he really _is_ looking at her like she's a nutter, so she sighs in frustration. "There's nothing simple about him. He's not – I mean he isn't your ordinary…" she breaks off and begins again. "He was never meant to exist in the first place."

The crease between his eyes deepens and so she fumbles for something tangible that he'll understand. "He's a sort of twin – or clone, I suppose. I had this friend, see; this other friend and he was the one who found me working in the shop and he brought me away with him. We travelled together and we did amazing things and he showed me how to be better; how to live a better life, and it was – it was fantastic." A random memory flits through her mind of him as he was when she first met him, all ears and nose and lanky frame, and she feels her eyes burn with forming tears. "I lost him."

He doesn't move away, but there's a hardness about him, something in the aimless darting of his eyes or the way he sits fixed in place except for his measured breaths. "I spent years," she continues, "literally _years_ trying to get back to him. And then I finally did, but it didn't last." The old bitterness touches at her and she almost forces it down out of habit, but she remembers where she is and who she's with and it's more than a little bit liberating to be able to say it. "He betrayed me."

"Betrayed you?"

"The Doc – Boris – whatever – that's when he came round – bit of a weird accident, that was, and my friend the Doctor decided I'd be better off with him instead." Her knees slide down again on the bed, her legs stretch out straight and her hands rest on top with nowhere else to go. "He dropped us off and left us behind."

"He just – forced you together?" He gives an incredulous shake of his head, but there's more to it – there's indignation and empathy and something else that's still formulating in his mind.

She reaches for his hand, grasps his forearm instead. "He had his reasons," she says by way of explanation, not excuse. "I know that; I can see why he thought we'd be a better match. And it did work – for a little while, I guess." _A very little while,_ she thinks, before the baggage between them got too heavy to bear.

"Rose," he asks softly, "Where is he now?"

She slides her hand down to touch his fingers and this time he responds, wraps her hand in his with a gentle squeeze. "He's here and there," she replies. "Last I spoke with him, he was in Taiwan." Her thumb traces a path across his hand and back again. "I haven't exactly been keeping tabs on him."

"You don't want to speak to him?" he asks, eyebrows raised as he studies her so carefully. It's hardly a subtle question.

Her head falls back and her eyes fall closed. "I'm just so tired, you know?" she replies after a moment and it doesn't answer his question, but it will. "Everything in my life was about him for all those years, and it was fantastic, and then it was horrible, and then it just stayed – mediocre and he's just not built for mediocre. At a certain point, you have to cut your losses and let go. He's better off without me and maybe I'm better off without him, but either way, I'm just – I'm so tired." She opens her eyes and finds him. "I need life to be about someone else for a while." She studies him and this time she thinks she might've got it right; might've got him to understand because he's still here, his hand is still in hers and all the hardness about him is gone as his fingers slip in with hers. "I just need a friend," she adds with a sigh.

He reaches for her with his empty hand, his fingers trail over her brow, tuck her hair behind her ear and move to cup her cheek. The warmth in him reaches into her, touches something that she's been keeping locked down so tightly that she's almost forgotten it's there, just barely alive. She feels it like a warm breath on her soul and it's a jolt of the best kind that leaves her more than a little bit giddy.

"You've got one," he says softly and she bites her lip, grins at him and wonders who he is that he's got her to open up and let him in like this.

Really, though, she can't bring herself to care.

_tbc_


	13. Chapter 13: Confidences & Cold Shoulders

**Chapter 13: Confidences and Cold Shoulders**

+ - + - + - +

She's kept overnight in hospital for observation and then she's sent home the next day, with strict orders to avoid any and all chases and combat situations whilst pregnant.

Life resumes. She's back at work on Tuesday, confined to desk duty and she's there on time that afternoon to pick Tony up from school.

When she arrives, John is deeply engaged in conversation with a mother who looks more than a little bit on edge, presumably regarding the tear-stained girl who's clutching at her waist. Rose hangs back, scans the playground for her brother, but she keeps finding her gaze wandering back to him. Whatever point he's making to the woman, he's being particularly emphatic about it. His head nods, he gestures with his hands, pats the child on the head. And then he catches sight of her, gives an almost imperceptible nod in her direction and that's when she notices how the sun touches his hair, transforms stray chestnut strands into gold. She notices it and she sees the grin playing round the edges of his eyes. She's pretty sure it wasn't there a moment ago, and the woman he's speaking with probably won't appreciate it.

She bites her lip and looks away, as if removing her gaze removes her presence, only it doesn't work because the distraction is still there. She ducks her head and looks over at him, her gaze discovered before it even arrives, and now she knows she's blushing. So she gives up and allows the grin to spread and he's already doing the same as he wraps up the conversation with the woman facing him. She leaves with her daughter in tow and Rose steps forward to claim his attention that's already awaiting her.

"Miss Tyler," he greets her cordially, an impish glint in his eye as he lifts up her hand to place a kiss on it. She giggles as he does it, his antiquated manners suddenly more than a little bit endearing.

"Mr. Smith," she replies, tucking her tongue between her teeth playfully.

His hand drops from his lips, still clasping hers, holding it between them and maintaining contact. When he lets go, his fingers slide over her knuckles slowly and reluctantly. "It's good to see you out and about," he observes with a glance down at the cast on her arm. "How's the wrist?"

She holds it up to show him. "A little itchy, but fine otherwise. I was back at work today."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Strictly desk duty," she assures him.

She's about to elaborate on the events of her day but just then Tony shows up at her side, and at the same moment there's a man, presumably a parent, hovering behind her, so she takes her brother by the hand and motions away. "I'll call you later," she says in farewell.

"Coffee tonight?" he calls after her.

She makes no effort to hide her smile. "You bet."

+ - + - + - +

Despite the lingering effects of her injuries and the pregnancy induced queasiness that dogs her, there's a new spring in her step as she takes Tony to the park and plays hide and seek, kicks a football around with him and then brings him home and stays to help him with his homework.

When Mum sticks her head in to invite her to supper, she figures it's as good a time as any. She tells her brother she'll be right back and she ducks out into the hallway where Mum is looking at her questioningly.

"There's something I need to tell you," she explains with a deep breath.

Mum's eyes widen and there's an intake of breath and considering all the bad news she's subjected her mother to over the years, she can hardly blame her for her wariness, particularly when she was in hospital only days ago. So she starts with a reassurance. "It's nothing bad."

"You always say that," Mum replies with a sigh. "It's something to do with the Doctor, isn't it? It's always to do with him."

"Sor' of," she confirms. "Mum, I'm pregnant." She looks at her expectantly, waiting for the eruption that's about to spill from her mouth.

It doesn't come.

Mum's shoulders actually relax. "Oh, is that all?" she asks, throwing her arms around her. "Congratulations, sweetheart."

She stands stiff, too shocked to hug her back. "I thought you'd have a fit."

"Oh, Rose," Mum releases her and pats her on the shoulder. "After everything else you've pulled with that man, honestly this is pretty small potatoes."

It actually makes sense; maybe she really is OK with this. "You're gonna be a grandmother," she can't help teasing.

Mum waggles a finger at her. "And you're pushing your luck, young lady. Have you told _him_?"

Rose nods and looks away. "Yeah. He was - well, he's not exactly..." she doesn't finish the thought; doesn't need to.

Mum sighs. "Well," she reflects, "I suppose it's to be expected. Are you staying for supper?"

The abrupt shift forces a laugh out of her. "Yeah, all right," she agrees, and she thinks that that was far, _far_ too easy.

+ - + - + - +

Over supper this proves to be true.

By the time the salad is served, Mum has not only filled Pete and Tony in on everything; she's off on a rant about the responsibility of parenthood, the proper sort of nappies to use, suggestions for names – both boys' and girls', and Rose is a hair's width away from telling her to shut it and leave her alone. Mercifully Mum finally shifts subjects to the party they're having this weekend to celebrate the launch of the latest product line over at Vitex Industries.

"We're expecting the Chairman of that new supermarket chain, and the actor from that new film everyone is talking about. Oh, and the President couldn't make it this time, but he's sending the Vice President in his place. Rose, do see if you can possibly find yourself a date. I know it's probably expecting too much in your condition but really, this will be the second – or is it the third? The _third_ party that you'll be showing up on your own and honestly there's just something so unsightly about it. People _are_ beginning to talk."

She can only roll her eyes at Pete, who knows better than to intervene but responds with a twitch to his mouth and a wink. She sighs and obediently says, "Yes, Mum," and when Pete finally changes the subject to ask her about the entertainment for the party, she makes a mental note to thank him later.

Finally they're done with supper and she climbs into her car and notices that a message is waiting for her on her mobile. She dials to retrieve it and her heart sinks, but only for a moment, because John can't meet her for coffee. Charley surprised him with tickets to a show, but he wants her to join them afterwards for a nightcap.

+ - + - + - +

It's 10:00 when she finds the restaurant and spots the two of them sitting inside. She enters; John sees her and motions for her to come and sit down. She ventures over to their booth, debates for a split second who to sit next to until she finally slides in next to Charley. "How was the show?" she asks the girl, putting her most genuine face forward.

The girl brightens visibly, "Oh, it was brilliant," she replies, all excitement and hardly any trace of eye-rolling; apparently she's also decided to be on good behaviour tonight.

"It was a nineteenth century tragedy," John elaborates, "an ill-matched stepmother and stepdaughter, a family drama and truly, the lead actors were superb." As he speaks, he slides out from the far corner of his seat to the centre so now he's facing both of them.

The waitress comes to take her drink order and Charley slides her glass over to her. "You should try one of these," she urges. "Strawberry margarita; it's delicious."

"I can't," she replies. She orders a club soda from the waitress and then turns to John, one eyebrow raised questioningly. "You haven't told her?"

He shakes his head. "Not my news to tell." His knee bumps hers under the table.

"Tell me what?" Charley asks.

Rose sighs. She may as well tell her; after all, the vital people have all been informed, it's not a secret any longer. "I'm pregnant," she says simply.

The younger girl's eyes widen to a look that actually verges on horror as she glances back at John and then over at her again. "But you're not - I mean how – who's..." she stammers.

Rose can't help thinking the girl's reaction is a bit extreme; they hardly know each other. She suspects she knows part of the reason, even if she doesn't understand it, so she explains. "I'm not involved with the father any more."

As expected, Charley's alarm eases, but her confusion grows. "But you're not - married?"

Rose stifles a laugh at the girl's naiveté. She throws a glance over at John, and suddenly her words from those weeks ago come back to her and her insides freeze.

_You really don't belong in this century, you know, _she had said to him.

They're both out of place here.

It lasts for the briefest of moments and then she sees again John's hippie-ish long hair and his jeans and Charley's stylish blouse and trousers. She remembers his story about Charley's strict upbringing, remembers his own tale of his past and she wants to laugh at herself for her wild suspicions. She can't even recognise normal any more.

John's foot nudges hers, brings her back to the present. She knows he's seen her moment of panic, suspects she'll be questioned about it later, but now's not the time. "No, m'not married," she replies to Charley, "And nobody's gonna burn me at the stake for it in the 21st century." The other girl flushes red as Rose looks to John, turning the awkward moment into a joke. "You two make quite a pair, you know - you're not a couple of time travellers, are you?"

Next to her she hears Charley sputter on her drink as John shakes his head with a chuckle. "No, nothing so exciting, I'm afraid. I was born in boring old 1977 in Sussex."

They all laugh together but Rose does not fail to notice the slight narrowing of the other girl's eyes, the way she grits her jaw and she suspects her good behaviour is spent.

But then Charley smiles and launches into an anecdote about one of her nursing classes; something to do with the evolution of the treatment of mental illness through the years, and Rose thinks that the crisis may have been averted. So when she notices the handsome, dark-haired man at the bar who can't take his eyes off Charley, she decides it's time for some friendly intervention. "You know," she says, leaning in to speak to her closely, "There is one gorgeous bloke over there that seems quite taken with you." She nods in the man's direction.

"Oh," Charley seems genuinely surprised. Then she shrugs it off as utterly inconsequential. "No matter." She sips her drink and murmurs under her breath, "Not like there's any point."

They both hear her anyway. "And why on earth not?" John asks.

She squirms in her seat. "Oh, it's just – I mean with school and all. Too busy." She says it weakly and she won't meet their eyes, either one of them. She looks down at the table, swirls her empty glass around a few times as if the motion and her very patience will fill it up again.

Rose wonders what's holding her back. It's something the other girl won't acknowledge, much less explain, and she wonders if it could be as simple as shyness. Maybe the girl just needs a little push. "Go and say hello," she urges her with a gentle nudge to her arm. "Doesn't have to be a lifetime commitment, just enjoy yourself while you're here."

The other girl turns on her, eyes blazing. "I said I don't _want_ to," she spits out. "And I hardly think I'm going to be taking advice from someone like _you, _with_..._." She stops short, gulps something back before adding, "your – situation and all," and those last, forced words are clearly masking a more biting insult.

"Charley!" John admonishes, but apparently that's all the girl has to say because then she moves to get up.

"Excuse me," she says, crisp and icy. "I need to go powder my nose," and Rose has no choice but to slide over and let her out.

Rose slips back into the booth opposite John where he's staring after Charley, confused like he's trying to remember yesterday's supper. "Your cousin doesn't like me," she observes, studying him closely.

His eyes sweep over the room to land on her again and the turn of his brow, the way his knee bumps absently on hers and stays there tells her all she needs to know. "I don't know what..." he mutters under his breath as he shakes his head. "Don't bother about her," he finally states outright. "She can get snippy, but she means well. She's still struggling to find her way in the big city, as it were."

Maybe that's true, or maybe there's another explanation. There's an easy one, of course. Given the circumstances, given Charley's history it's understandable that she's feeling threatened, She feels like an outsider in this life and her cousin John is all she has here. It's simple and obvious and yet she still thinks there's more to it than that.

But whatever it is, she's not out to make an utter enemy of the girl, so she decides to bow out of this one. "I should go," she says, sliding her way out of the booth.

"Rose," he says, and though she expected him to object, his emphasis still does strange things to her insides. He catches her by the wrist. "Stay."

She reaches across with her other hand, the one that's wrapped in the cast and traces over the back of his hand with her fingers. He releases her wrist, lacing his fingers with hers, an awkward gesture when there's plaster in the way, but he doesn't let go. "I feel like I'm intruding." she says glancing about. "I think I should leave."

He gets to his feet, still clasping her hand. "You're not intruding. I invited you, didn't I?"

There's sincerity in his touch and in his face. She'll never know how he does it; how he manages to make anything seem possible, to make infinity believable. She's only known one other man who could do that but John is something different; he's human and he's cheerful and he's not weighed down by the past; he's not defined by impossibly immense darkness and light. She hesitates, thinking maybe whatever's bothering Charley really could be so easily dealt with, but then she remembers the girl's blazing eyes and that this evening had been on her initiation.

"She didn't invite me," Rose nods in the direction where Charley went. "I'm spoiling her plans. I really think I should go." She turns back to John with a smile and she's had an idea. "If you want, you can make it up to me this weekend."

"Oh?" he asks, intrigued.

"My parents – they're having one of their society parties on Saturday night," she explains. "Mum practically begged me to bring someone; apparently a 28-year-old unaccompanied daughter is a disgrace to the family. I may as well be walking around with a hump on my back."

"Well, we can't have you being the eyesore of the evening, now can we?" he jokes. "What time?"

"Seven thirty," she replies. "You'll have to dress up a little - jacket and tie." She's not sure how he'll feel about this.

Their hands are still clasped and their elbows bump. "How about I bring some takeaway over beforehand?" he offers. "Say 6:00 or 6:30?"

"Sounds perfect," she smiles and before she thinks what she's doing, she wraps him in a tight hug.

_tbc_


	14. Chapter 14: Mathematics and Merriment

Chapter 14: Mathematics and Merriment

+ - + - + - +

She's dressed in jogging bottoms and a T-shirt when he knocks on the door that Saturday evening, partly because she lost track of time, and partly because she wants him to see her like this – in her ordinary clothes in her ordinary flat, going about her ordinary business.

She knows that the very fact she's making a point of appearing ordinary proves just how _not_ ordinary she is. But either way, when she releases the lock and he enters, clad in suit and tie, arms laden with deliciously savoury-smelling bags of food, she's suddenly self-conscious.

"I've never seen you in a suit," she laughs before even saying hello. "You look good."

His hair hangs loose, skirting the shoulders of his navy blue suit jacket and she normally doesn't care for the combination of unconventional long hair with a straight-laced suit, but there's something about him – his soft blue eyes, perhaps which enliven the parochial business attire. Or maybe it's just because she knows him, with his gentle nature and old-world manners that don't quite fit in the modern clothing.

He looks around, taking in the surroundings. "I rarely have occasion to dress up," he explains. "In fact, I was a bit concerned I wouldn't find anything presentable in my closet; it's rather a mishmash of items I've picked up over the years with very few cohesive outfits." His eyes dance. "At first I thought I was going to have to wear the old velvet frock coat I found in there."

She laughs as she takes one of the bags from him. "Where did you get a frock coat?"

"San Francisco."

The reply is automatic, and after he says it, he stands there with a look like he's not sure what's going to come out of his mouth next. But then he shakes his head and corrects himself. "Actually, I'm not certain – it may have come from my father. Anyway," he lifts up the bag in his hand. "I hope you like Ethiopian food."

She does, and she tells him so and together they bring it all into the kitchen.

Some minutes later they're seated at the table opposite each other, dipping bits of flatbread into spicy stews and eating with their hands; dropping nearly as much food on the table as reaches their mouths. They clink their water glasses, and Rose tries to impress him with the list of people who'll be attending tonight's event.

He's not easily impressed, and the harder it gets, the more she takes it as a challenge.

The airline heiress, he claims is insufferably rude. The professor from Oxford is a pompous poser who couldn't put a sentence together if his life depended on it. He even brushes off the famous novelist, citing a book about the Cultural Revolution that she's never heard of; he says the plot was dreary and the reviews were abysmal.

She's surprised at his knowledge of celebrity culture, especially since he doesn't watch television. She teases him about spending too much time reading the tabloids, but he denies it and actually seems confused as to how he came by the information.

Finally she excuses herself to go get changed for the evening. He's still eating so she tells him to take his time and not to worry about the mess – she'll get it later.

She pads back to her room and locates the dress she'd planned for the evening – a pink, form-fitting strappy affair and she puts it on.

Tries to put it on, rather. It doesn't fit.

She'd thought her trousers were starting to feel snug round the waist and this confirms it. It's a wakeup call for her, because much as she's known that she's pregnant, she's been filing it away in the back of her mind, delaying all action as long as she can. She's got no pregnancy clothes, no plans for a nursery in her flat, no discussions have been held at work concerning how she's going to manage, and now she's seeing that it's time to start planning.

_Tomorrow_, she thinks as she rummages through her closet in search of another dress to wear. Finally she finds one, blue with a drop waist that allows a bit more room, and she puts it on. She pulls up her tights and she's just in the middle of doing her mascara when she hears him swearing down the hall.

"Blast it!"

She opens the door and sticks her head out. "Everything all right?"

"Food on my tie," his annoyed voice comes from the kitchen. "May I use your bathroom? I might be able to clean it." He appears in the hallway and she can see a large brown splotch smack in the middle of his tie.

"There's no way that's washing out," she shakes her head. "Hang on." She ducks back into her room and opens up the left-hand closet door – the one that hides all the things _he_ left behind – locates the tie rack and selects one.

She brings it to him, finds him in the bathroom making a clearly futile attempt at scrubbing the tie. "Come here," she beckons, holding up the replacement.

He looks hesitant and she thinks she knows why. "Brand-new, never been worn," she assures him, hoping it's true. She grabs him by the hand, pulls him into the hallway, and he complies, stumbling after her until he's standing facing her.

He gives a sigh of surrender and reaches up to loosen the soiled tie, but she's taking charge, already doing the same, and suddenly there's a jumble of hands at his chin. The clean tie dangles from her elbow as she fumbles through and around his fingers and then those fingers are wrapping around hers. His skin is chapped but his grip is warm and firm and suddenly she's _very_ conscious of the fact that he's not terribly tall because she's wearing heels and she's right at his eye level.

The blue in his eyes is vast and intense, and it carries into his voice, softens and reaches inside her as he speaks. "Thank you," he says, his voice rough as his fingers move over the plaster of her cast to touch at the exposed skin of her hand. She extends her fingers to lace between his, to clasp and release again, friction created to magnify contact and his unwavering gaze sets her heart thumping in her chest.

Her eyes travel down, over his lips, his chin where there's the hint of whiskers under his skin, down past his jaw to his neck. With quivering hands she unties the tie, slides it out from under his collar and slings it around her neck to free up her hands.

His breath is warm on her cheek, making hers catch as she lifts up his collar and encircles his neck with the clean tie. She wraps the ends over and under in a perfect knot as she feels him shift his weight between his feet. She's looking down, feels the flush in her face, feels his eyes on her and she doesn't dare to meet his gaze. There's a swish of movement, the shift of a shoulder tells her he's lifting his hand up and she doesn't breathe as she waits for his touch.

His fingers graze her hair, a whisper of a caress that she only barely feels, before his hand falls back to his side.

She smoothes the tie down and gives a perfunctory pat. "There," she says, glancing to her left into her room. "You're all set, I just need a minute and then we can go."

She shuts the bedroom door behind her, leans against it and breathes.

+ - + - + - +

She finishes her make-up, experiments with pinning her hair up before deciding to leave it loose, and finally she heads back out to the living room, with a smile forced on her face.

He's sitting on the sofa, thumbing through a book, and when he hears her approach he looks up. "Ready to go?" he asks.

His tone is relaxed and genuine; their calm ease with each other is back. "Let's do it," she says.

+ - + - + - +

He insists on driving of course – more of his old-fashioned chivalry – but there's no point in arguing with him over it, so they climb into the car and set out. She playfully moans that he's got nothing to listen to on his car stereo, so he lets her choose a radio station. But when she selects one that's playing something loud and thrashy, he cringes and turns down the volume.

She complains, so he changes the station to a classical one, playing a symphony orchestra.

She pretends she's falling asleep and lets out a loud snore.

He reaches for the dial again and she springs to life, smacking his hand away and now they're both laughing outright.

He gives up, lifts his hands in mock surrender. She decides to compromise, settling on an oldies station that's playing some Ella Fitzgerald and he seems inordinately pleased with her selection.

She sits back in her seat and sighs with contentment as they chat about music and traffic and bad drivers and all the other everyday details of daily life on Earth that suddenly seem fresh and full of surprises.

+ - + - + - +

They arrive at the Tyler mansion and make their entrance to the festivities. The foyer and living room are full of people congregating and chatting and there's a string quartet playing in the corner. Rose scans the room in search of some familiar faces. Suddenly she sees Mum approaching and the realisation dawns on her. She grabs hold of John's arm. "I'm so sorry," she whispers to him. "I should've warned you about her."

He shoots her a questioning look but before she can explain, Mum is there, eyeing John up devilishly as she smiles and gently swirls the glass in her hand. "Dr. Smith," she greets him coyly. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Good evening, Mrs. Tyler," he returns with his unfaltering manners. "Thank you for having me."

"Oh, it's our pleasure." She raises her glass to her lips and downs the remainder of the drink in one gulp. "Would you mind getting me a refill?" she asks, handing him the empty glass and motioning in the direction of the bar. "Of course, please get something for yourself as well."

Rose ducks her head and rolls her eyes for him to see. "I'll have a club soda," she adds, surrendering to the inevitable.

"Of course," he replies and heads off across the room.

She wouldn't have thought it possible, but Mum's smirk actually widens as she asks, "What is he doing here with you?"

"I invited him, Mum," she replies in a singsong voice.

"Really?" She tries not to be offended at the tone of surprise in Mum's voice. "Does he know you're..." She breaks off and glances at Rose's abdomen. "You know."

Rose rolls her eyes. "Yes, he knows I'm pregnant. He's just a friend, Mum, I don't know why you're acting all surprised that I brought him – you made it sound like I'd be banished from the family if I came alone."

"Oh no, it's fine," Mum replies, her voice high and patronising.

That, Rose decides, is enough of that. She waggles a finger in her mother's face. "You - behave yourself," she cautions.

Mum takes the not-so-subtle hint and shifts into a rundown of the guest list with a commentary on all the latest gossip and Rose nods politely and wonders what's taking John so long with the drinks.

Finally, he returns and she immediately takes him by the arm, murmurs an excuse to Mum and steers him away. "Come on," she says, "I'll introduce you to Lord Abbington – after that scandal broke last week I'm sure he'll be glad of the company." He obliges and when he sees her throw Mum a dirty look over her shoulder, he chuckles.

+ - + - + - +

They mingle for a time. She introduces him to athletes and politicians and even manages to find a few moments to meet the Vice President. John greets them all with his subtle charm, even managing to slip in a backhanded insult to the Vice President regarding his handling of the recent financial scandal and make it sound like a compliment. She's not sure when her hand slipped in with his but it proves to be useful: a squeeze of fingers, the nudge of an elbow, a thumb stroking over skin all form an unspoken language between them and she finds that she's enjoying the covert interaction immensely. He has a way with people – a brashness wrapped up in perfect decorum; an openness that's almost childlike at times in the questions he asks, but there's always weight behind his every sentiment. There's always a deeper meaning behind even the simplest of inquiries and she begins to see how easy it is to underestimate him.

After all, she certainly had.

After some time of this, Pete spots her and pulls her aside with a question about work and John takes the opportunity to go use the loo. Jake joins them and she gets caught up in talk about teleport devices and the superior olfactory senses of a certain alien race from the Gilmaja Cluster, and it's a good half hour later when she realises John has disappeared.

She excuses herself and goes in search of him. He's not at the bar, he's not in the dining room, so she makes her way down the hallway, when she finds him in the library, seated next to two older gentlemen, both at least sixty years of age, bespectacled and bookish. The three of them are deep in conversation as she nears their seats and she hears terms flung about like 'polynomial' and 'countably infinite.'

He spots her and gets to his feet, excuses himself and comes over to her.

"Well," she teases, touching her tongue to teeth, "I suppose you can take the man away from the science, but you can't take the science out of the man."

He slips a hand round her waist and ducks his head to speak quietly. "Ah, but this isn't science," he explains. "Professor Cook is one of the foremost mathematicians at Oxford today. Do you ever do any recreational maths?"

She bursts out laughing. "_Recreational_ maths?"

"Yes," he insists. He turns to the door, his hand at her waist gives a gentle tug and she follows as they stroll out of the library into the hallway. "Number theory," he goes on. "Countable integers, primes. Transcendental numbers – they're the most fascinating of all."

She raises an eyebrow. "Transcendental numbers?"

He turns to face her and takes hold of both her hands. "Really," he insists with a vigorous nod. "You'd be amazed at how much you can learn about the world, its very structure and foundation through maths. All those philosophers and poets through the ages, contemplating the nature of the universe and sometimes I think they're missing the most basic principles of all."

"You're saying maths explain the nature of the universe?" It doesn't sound quite so outlandish when she repeats it, particularly with his thumb stroking her hand like that.

"Transcendental numbers," he clarifies. "You know what pi is, yes?"

"Cherry or crème?" she asks, deadpan for half a second until she allows the smile to spread. Her teasing eyes find him and the look on his face – lips pursed, grinning at her through narrowed eyes – makes the stupid joke entirely worthwhile.

He punishes her by pushing her hands away. He releases them, brushes fingertips up her arm. "_Mathematical_ pi," he corrects; doesn't need to, as he gesticulates in her face.

"Three-point-one-four," she recites. A server passes by; she helps herself to some cheese puffs and bites down on one.

He shakes his head. "Ah, but that's just an abbreviation," he continues. "Three-point-one-four-one-five-nine-two-six – the decimals go on forever, with no pattern, no predictability."

"So?" She holds up a cheese puff to his lips, offering it to him. He opens his mouth and she pushes it in.

"That's just an example," he mumbles between chews. "That's just the best-known transcendental number." He swallows. "There's _e_ as well, but think about it – there's literally countless others. Just in between the integers one and two, there's an infinite, uncountable amount of transcendental numbers, most of which are utterly insignificant and will never be noticed by anybody."

"So?" she repeats.

"Oh, but Rose, don't you see? It's just like life – the air we breathe and the people we meet. There's chaos and random elements coming together; infinite possibilities most of which are never realised, and every once in a while there's an _e_ or a pi that anchors the very fabric of reality into a static framework that can't be changed without disastrous consequences. It's just like chaos and order; time and space. It's life, right there, described perfectly through maths."

He's waving his hands and nodding insistently and it's a line of reasoning that connects apples and oranges, Pythagoras with Pink Floyd and it almost sounds like something _he_ would say.

Which is _not_ a thought that she wishes to pursue any further, so she raises an eyebrow at him. "You're a bit daft, you know?"

He laughs. "Thank you."

She breathes deeply. "Come on," she tugs at his arm playfully. "Pete invited that football player from Arsenal that everyone's talking about and after his performance at last week's match, I think things might get ugly."

Her hand finds his and fingers twine together as he follows her down the hallway. "So tell me," he asks, "What's the real reason you call your father 'Pete'?" She shoots him a look that's a question and he explains, "I suspect you didn't give me the whole story when I asked before."

He's right; she didn't and now there's no reason not to. "Because he's not my father," she explains bluntly.

"Really?" he stops in the foyer at the base of the stairs, pulling her to him. "I thought he was. You've got the same surname."

"That's because my father was Peter Tyler." she explains, and honestly, she's enjoying the befuddled expression on his face. "I'm from a parallel universe," she explains casually. "So's Mum. My father died – this Pete is an alternate version of him." Knowingly, she clicks her tongue and smiles sweetly.

He stares at her, his reaction a mixture of disbelief, confusion and something else – something odd, like he's trying to remember a terribly important piece of information. Finally he gives a sigh and a grin and his calm acceptance is at once astonishing and wonderful. "And _you're_ calling _me_ daft?" is his only response.

She laughs and she wants to hug him, but before she has a chance, he changes the subject. "Where's your brother?"

She shrugs. "Oh, he hates these things. I'm sure he's upstairs with the nanny." She glances over at the clock. "9:00 – actually he's probably in bed by now."

"A major football star is here and he doesn't want to meet him?" He looks incredulous.

She glances back over her shoulder to the roomful of people milling about. "Oh, Mum always dresses him up in these stiff suits, parades him about like a lap dog and never lets him say a word to anyone interesting. Believe me, he's happier upstairs with his Nintendo."

He ducks his head and leans closer. "Let's go get him," he whispers like he's daring her.

"But I told you - "

He shakes his head. "If he doesn't want to come, it just proves he's been doing it wrong. Come on – what boy doesn't want to meet a major sports star?" He tugs at her hand.

"But it's past his bedtime. Mum'll go spare…"

"Then we won't tell her," he says slowly, patiently, like she's being thick. And when she sees the devilish grin spreading on his face, she knows she is. Thick and dull and a boatload of other adjectives that she's quite happy to leave behind in favour of the grin on his face that's quickly spreading to hers.

She bites her lip, smiles at him sideways and nods in understanding and together they start up the stairs.

They find their way down the hall to Tony's room. "Wait here," she instructs him as she raps on the door and lets herself in.

The room is dark, Tony is in bed and already half asleep, but he's easily roused by the promise of an adventure, especially one involving his teacher. She helps him quickly change into trousers, shirt and shoes and they rejoin John in the hallway.

John greets the boy with a handshake and Tony's eyes light up at the sight of him. "There's someone downstairs I think you'll enjoy meeting," he explains.

They make their way back to the top of the stairs and Rose leans over to whisper to her brother, "Don't let Mum see you," and when he giggles at this, she has to choke down her own laughter.

They creep down the stairs and reach the bottom undetected. Rose can see Pete across the living room deeply engaged in conversation with a foreign dignitary – Spanish, she thinks – but there's still no sign of Mum, so they scoot the boy into the next room. John spots the football player over by the front window and steers them in that direction.

That's when Mum's piercing voice rings in her ears from somewhere behind her.

Instinctively, she whirls around in an attempt to block view of her brother. "Mum," she greets her, taking her by the arm and steering her in the opposite direction.

"Rose, I've been looking all over for you," Mum chastises. "I was just chatting with Miriam Gallagher and she was telling me about a wonderful shop she saw around Oxford Street. She says they sell the most gorgeous pregnancy clothes."

Rose presses her lips together to suppress a giggle and Mum frowns. "Is there something amusing?" she demands, one eyebrow arched sternly.

Mum hasn't seen Tony; that much is clear, and by now John should have him well out of view. Inwardly, she's laughing with delight; she can't remember the last time she's had this much fun. "Sorry, Mum," she rolls her eyes with the false apology. "I'll try not to enjoy myself any more."

Mum ignores her. "Where's that bloke of yours?" she asks. "I've hardly had a chance to talk with him at all tonight."

Rose stops herself from looking back over her shoulder. "He's – uh – he's in the loo, Mum. I'll be sure to tell him you're looking for him."

At that moment they're interrupted by a lavishly-dressed woman about Mum's age who's raving over the hors d'oeuvres and the desserts, keen to find out the name of their caterer. Rose greets the woman, joins in the conversation for the minimum time that politeness demands, and then she slips away to find John and Tony.

She weaves in between wall-to-wall partygoers and locates them in the corner. The athlete is recounting the last moments of the 2014 World Cup to him while signing his autograph on a scrap piece of paper, and Tony is gazing up at him with star struck eyes.

She sidles up alongside John, brushes fingertips over his hand as she leans in to whisper in his ear in her most coy tone, "Mum's looking for you."

Almost as she says it, her mother's voice can be heard coming their way and in a panic she nudges Tony. It's really more of a shove than a nudge, and her brother is quick to register his impending doom almost immediately. He dives under an end table that sits against the wall, and when she and John move to stand in front of it, she doesn't think it looks too conspicuous.

"Dr. Smith," Mum greets him in her most gracious and cordial voice that hides almost all traces of lasciviousness, "I was hoping to catch you for a few moments tonight. I'm _so_ glad you could join us."

Rose watches, incredulous, as John takes Mum's hand, lays a kiss on it, and as if that wasn't already enough to charm the socks off of her, he moves on to flattery. "It's a pleasure, Mrs. Tyler, especially with such a lovely home as yours, and an even lovelier hostess. Rose was just showing me around and I was wondering about one of your paintings in the library..." and the next thing she knows, he's strolling away with her, arm in arm.

Quickly, she coaxes Tony out from his hiding place and ushers him into the dining room, where there's a full spread of cakes and other sweets that he immediately makes a grab for.

She's about to relax when she's descended upon by Mr. Lowsley, one of Pete's colleagues from Vitex Industries, a dull, grey man who looks like he's in his fifties and probably always has. He greets her, pays her a vague compliment and then he's off on a tangent, droning on about the marketing strategy for the new line of Vitex products. She feels her eyes glaze over as she physically restrains the yawn that's bubbling up. When she spots Tony shoving a fourth cupcake in his mouth she's just about to use him as an excuse to make herself scarce, when John suddenly appears behind her, takes her by the shoulders and steers her away.

She bids a hurried farewell to the man and glances at John who nods in the direction of the living room – Mum is fast approaching. So she reaches out to grab Tony by the arm, John's hand falls to her waist, his other still on her shoulder as he steers the three of them into the kitchen.

The room is a flurry of catering staff and food preparation, clanking dishes and any variety of scents, both sweet and savoury that hang in the air. She turns round to look back for Mum. John's hand slides off her waist, finds hers as their fingers hook together loosely. Tony scuttles behind as they're all forced to step to the side when two servers head back out carrying full trays of food. She maintains view of the dining room through the doorway, keeping watch until the coast is clear. Mum's chatting with the guests is getting infuriatingly long and she's just about to send John to go distract her again, when she's alarmed to see her headed this way.

"She's coming!" she hisses to John. Together they scan the room for another exit, but the only other one leads to the outside. They've got no choice. "Come on!" she bites and the three of them make a mad dash to the door and through it to the outside.

They hit the fresh air, it's cool and crisp and it only serves to increase her adrenaline rush. She hops up and down with equal parts cold and giddiness as she claps her brother on the back.

And then she dives into John's arms in peals of laughter.

She presses her cheek on his. It's rough and warm, he smells of honey and when he swings her up and around, he laughs with her, and she feels like she's flying.

But that's not quite right, because she knows what it feels like to fly. She's travelled the universe with an alien in an alien's ship; she's flown over planets, into galaxies and through the Void, and this is entirely different, because he's human and it's an adventure on a different scale. It's a microcosm of insignificant life on Earth, and she doesn't understand how something so small can be so satisfying.

She doesn't understand, but she will. She's learning.

Her arms still wrapped round John's neck, she spots Tony over his shoulder as the boy dashes off to run a jubilant race round the darkened lawn. Her chin pressed on his shoulder slides reluctantly off as he lowers her to the ground and her feet touch concrete.

But he doesn't let her go far. His arms are still circling her waist, his breath laughing into her ear. The laughter is slowly dying and she presses closer for more – more mirth or warmth or maybe just contact, she's not quite sure.

His grasp shifts so that one hand holds her to him securely, as he reaches up with the other to touch her brow. He traces a path over her hairline, a light caress down her cheek and into her hair where he twirls strands between his fingers and suddenly her heart is pounding again, only this time it's not from exertion.

She pulls away, just enough to gaze at him and slides one hand off his shoulder to touch her fingers to his, twining them together amidst tangled hair. He's close, he's so close and she can't believe this is happening – not now, not with him, but he's here, his breath is near enough to feel on her face, near enough to hear as it whispers against her. She tightens her fingers between his as his gaze travels over her face, deep warm blue taking in the sight of her so tenderly.

She wets her lips with a flick of her tongue as he draws her to him. His eyes fall closed just before hers do and the air she breathes is warm from his mouth.

A child's excited shout startles them apart and they jump, more from surprise than any sense of indiscretion. Tony is back, prancing round excitedly and she feels the flush on her face as she ducks her head. When she looks up at John, his eyes are already on her, laughing with her.

"Come on," she says to Tony, grabbing the boy by the hand as she sets off across the yard. "Time to get you back to bed." John's light touch finds the small of her back, brushes across to her elbow and down to take her by the hand. They stroll together and she nods in the direction of the patio. "There's another entrance over here, he can go in and up the back stairs that way."

They make their way across the lawn to the empty patio. The glass doors to the living room are closed but the music and the chatter of the guests are still audible. The door leading to the back stairs is to the left, closed and darkened. She gives Tony a hug, bids him good night and sends him back to bed, confident that he'll find his way undetected.

John reaches out a hand and she takes it, follows him over to the stone wall where they lean and gaze up at the night sky in quiet comfort. He looks at her sideways. "You look lovely tonight," he says finally, and his grip tightens.

A light breeze wafts through his hair and into hers. "Thank you," she replies softly.

From inside there's a burst of laughter, a group of people sharing a joke, and it's a jolt that's harsher than the crisp air on her bare arms because it brings her back to reality. She looks up at the night-time sky and sighs, trying to control the waver in her voice, "I was actually going to wear a different dress but I couldn't get into it any more."

She watches him out the corner of her eye as he looks down and yes, she's almost certain that he had forgotten too.

But his grip doesn't loosen, so she waits. She watches out of the corner of her eye as he draws in a slow breath, turns his head away from her and wages war with himself. She waits as he decides if she's too much for him to take on, and suddenly there's a lump in her throat and she wonders again how this could've happened – how this human man could've found his way into her heart and reawakened parts of her soul that she thought were dead.

To be sure, she's loved and lost before – she's lost a man and a life on such an epic scale that she knows nothing could ever, _will_ ever compare. And yet somehow that's the very point. This doesn't compare; it's something new. The prospect of losing John doesn't come with any threats to humanity; no paradoxes, shifting timelines or universes imploding upon universes. If he walks away, nobody gets hurt except for her. It's a tiny bullet targeted at her battered heart that's only just rediscovering what it means to be human, and the isolation – the _smallness_ of it all is what's so frightening now.

She'll survive either way, she always does. But now she's tasted the sweetness that she never thought was there – the richness that even a human life can bring. Its flavours are more subtle, perhaps, but no less substantial, and the prospect of living it without him brings a new, surprising and entirely unknown emptiness.

She knows her eyes are wide and vulnerable as he turns to her finally, but when he does his smile is true and he looks at her like she's something new, a whole world to be explored. "Would you care to dance?" he offers, stepping away from the stone wall, his hand still in hers.

Confused, she doesn't move. "Here?"

"Here," he confirms, ceremoniously lifting her hand up as he pulls her to him. "We can hear the music," he nods towards the festivities indoors and he's right – the string quartet inside is playing a waltz.

So she follows his lead, lays a hand tentatively on his shoulder, wraps her fingers of her other hand round his as his hand finds her waist. There's a distance between them as they begin to sway together; she can see his eyes looking far away behind her, but then she feel him suck in a breath and he draws her in closer. Her fingers find the nape of his neck, he loosens his grip on her other hand to weave their fingers together and she sighs into him.

She feels his lips trail over her brow as he whispers her name into her ear and she thinks that maybe he's not going anywhere.

Neither is she.

He may just be the bravest person she's ever met.

_t__bc_


	15. Chapter 15: Afflictions and Alienation

Chapter 15: Afflictions and Alienation

+ - + - + - +

She awakens the next morning to the sound of banging on the door.

She sits up in bed, her heart pounding from the sudden shock. She glances at the clock: 7:30 in the morning.

A wave of nausea washes over her and then gently subsides. She rises to her feet, pulls on her dressing gown and pads down the hall towards the door.

The pounding is increasing. "Oi! Keep your shirt on!" she calls out as she unlocks the bolt and opens the door.

And suddenly her heart is in her throat because it's _him_, standing in front of her, all tall and gangly in pinstripes and trainers. "Wha – what are you doing here?" she gapes, but then her stomach churns and she knows she can't wait for an answer, so she covers her mouth with her hand and dashes back down the hallway to the bathroom just in time for the contents of her stomach to resurface.

She washes her face, drinks some water and finally makes her way – somewhat shakily – back to the living room where he's lounging in a chair, feet propped up on the coffee table, reading a tabloid.

He's got about two days' worth of scruff on his face, he looks tired and a bit ashen but otherwise he's the same as ever, and it's that very sameness that's jarring to her, because his presence is enormous with chance and impossibility. It reminds her of just how much they've left behind them; how much she's let go of. Letting go of, perhaps.

He looks up at her, eyebrows raised. "Everything all right?" He crinkles something next to him, produces a crisp and bites down with a crunch.

"M'fine," she replies. "Just morning sickness – need to get some food in my stomach. D'you want some tea?"

He folds the paper and puts it down. "I'll get it," he offers, getting to his feet and heading to the kitchen.

She follows after him. "I've got some leftovers in the fridge too – Chinese food. I can heat some up for you if you're hungry."

"Don't worry about me," he says helpfully as he fills the kettle. "If you need to eat, then eat. Here – have a crisp." He places the bag down on the counter.

He's being awfully accommodating, she thinks, and she wonders about it; she wonders if he's as nervous as she is.

"What happened to you?" he speaks up suddenly, spotting the cast on her wrist.

She waves a hand dismissively. "Just work – a Weevil chase that went wrong."

He raises an eyebrow. "Should you be doing that sort of thing when you're – you know…?"

"It's no big deal," she sighs. She has no desire to discuss this with him right now, so she fixes herself a bowl of cereal and eats in silence as he locates the tea and mugs. The food finally starts to calm her stomach so she puts her spoon down and looks up at him. "Why are you here?" she asks bluntly.

He looks taken aback at the very question. "I told you I would be, remember?" He gestures vaguely backwards with his index finger. "Phone call, middle of the night, I thought you were Mortimer going on about SCUBA outfits and Huang's son trying to learn Spanish? You told me you're pregnant, I said I'd be there…"

"You didn't sound too sure," she says, and now she's second-guessing herself; did she read him wrong? If she was wrong about this, what else might she be wrong about?

Her stomach lurches again only this time there's a familiarity to it and she remembers this about him – the dizzying mercurial shifts that she could never keep up with. The original was bad enough, but this version, the way he was constantly changing, developing, testing himself, it was just...

Her mouth opens in an enormous yawn and she lays her head down into her folded arms on the table.

The kettle boils and he's busy preparing the tea so he doesn't see the gesture as he prattles on, "...Opterrans insisted on every manner of pomp and ceremony in accepting back their crown jewel – ridiculous waste of time, really, and that dim-witted crown prince of theirs nearly lost the jewel all over again – said he'd hidden it in his pants drawer if you can believe that – and then I had to hitch a few rides across Asia, got into a bit of a scrape in Morocco, that took a few more days, and then..." he breaks off as he sees her. "Did I wake you?"

She sighs and grits her teeth. "_Now_ it dawns on him," she murmurs in annoyance.

"I'm sorry," he offers and he really does sound sincere. "You used to be rather an early riser."

She lifts her head and props her chin up under her fist. "Yeah, well, I didn't used to be pregnant," she retorts with just a little more acerbity than she intends. And then without knowing why, she adds, "Plus I was out late last night."

"Were you?" he asks. His voice is high and casual but his eyes study her closely.

She spoons more cereal into her mouth. "Just one of my parents' parties," she brushes him off. His eyebrows shoot up and he's about to question her further but she doesn't want to get into it now. "Doctor, really – why are you here?" she asks again, because she's not satisfied with his first answer. "Are you actually planning on staying?"

"Jon," he corrects her. "J-O-N, short for Jonathan."

She stops herself from rolling her eyes. "So that's the latest choice?" she muses. "Awfully ordinary for you." She notes that he's still not answering the question.

"It's the final choice," he states definitively. Then he clicks his tongue with a wink. "Close to the original, but not quite. Suits me, don't you think?" He bites down on another crisp.

"I s'pose," she sighs. Her impatience is increasing, churning away in her stomach, so she decides enough is enough. "Look," she says, "I appreciate that you're here, you came all this way. I guess I'm just confused – I need to know – I mean, is this just a one-time thing? Or are you planning to – I mean, 'cos having a child is a lot of work, you know; it's not something you can just drop in and drop out for..."

She pokes at her cereal as she speaks, not looking at him so she doesn't notice his face until she trails off. But when she does look at him, her impatience turns to ire because he's clearly not listening to her. His eyes are scanning the room back and forth and he's sniffing the air, waving his hand as if slapping at an insect.

She pounds her fist on the table. "Doctor!"

He runs a hand through his hair. "Did you feel that?" he asks. His gaze darts about wildly.

"It's just a fly," she insists.

"No," he shakes his head. "Much stronger that time. Too strong, in fact." His head snaps to the left. "There it is again!"

Her eyes fall closed and she grits her teeth. "Doctor – Jon – whatever – can you please just _listen_?" She wants to scream, wants to shake him and the feeling is far, far too familiar.

"That's it!" he cries. "If I could just check the fluctuation scope on the temporal manifold…" He takes a step towards her, reaches out and then draws his hand back awkwardly. "I'm sorry Rose, this can't wait."

And almost before she blinks, he turns and bounds out the door.

+ - + - + - +

He manages to descend one flight of stairs before he has to stop to rest. And breathe.

He sits down on the second step, rests his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. He's shaking and his stomach is flipping over and he has to swallow hard to keep everything down. He takes a series of long breaths and his heart slows and then he's able to turn his thoughts to what he's just realised.

Because it's clear now: this isn't some disease; some cancer eating away at this waste product that's his body. No, that anomaly in Time a moment ago – the one that hit him like a sledgehammer to his gut - made it quite clear that there's something else going on here. It was far, far too powerful to be caused by just his own temporal senses going awry.

He's not just dying. Something out there is killing him, and with the level of power that it just displayed, it's got the potential to do far worse than that. Everyone around him could be affected. The whole world could be erased from history.

_She_ could be in danger.

The cruel irony of it is almost too much for him, because when he thought it was just him, it was practically poetic justice. He knew she'd manage just fine on her own, and she'd probably be far better off without him. But now he's seen her again, blonde hair and bright eyes, carrying a child that's suddenly moving in his mind beyond the distant abstract, forming into a person; a human made from a part of _him_. And he's been given a new, tiny ray of hope that maybe his life can be saved; maybe he can deal with the threat and live to meet his child.

But if he can't, he'll be taking them with him, and somehow that possibility seems more real. It seems like the perfect culmination of this useless life he's been fumbling through ever since the accident that brought him into existence.

He knows she's furious with him. But that's nothing new, and really, it's better this way, because if he tells her what's happening, she'll want to be involved, and he does _not_ want her mixed up in this.

She'll understand eventually. Or it won't matter either way.

He rises to his feet, somewhat shakily, and heads off to investigate.

+ - + - + - +

She doesn't cry.

So many times she thought she was steeled against him and his capriciousness; so many time she's resolved to be patient with him and not let his every mood and whim affect her, only to collapse into sobs and torment the very moment she was alone.

And now that the stakes are raised to the breaking point, she finds the steel in her soul she's been seeking all this time.

She doesn't cry.

+ - + - + - +

She finishes her breakfast and does the washing up; she lounges for a time with the book that John loaned her. She answers the phone when Mum calls and listens to her fawn over John, dutifully denying any romantic prospects with him.

She remembers her realisation last night and her vow to begin shopping for pregnancy clothes today, so she spends some time going through her existing wardrobe and making lists of what she'll need, and it's not until about two hours later that she finally makes her way to the bathroom to get showered for the day.

And that's when she discovers she's bleeding.

_tbc_


	16. Chapter 16: Penitence & Parking Tickets

**Chapter 16: Penitence and Parking Tickets**

Rose found herself thinking about Martha Jones frequently during those last months before the Doctor left.

He only told her a very little bit about his time spent travelling with Martha. He'd mentioned something about a hospital on the moon, something else about a traffic jam on New Earth, and that was about it. She had pressed him on it just once, in search of details on how he had met her, and why they had parted company, and he had dodged the issue with vague explanations. She had persisted until finally he had relented

"She fancied me," he explained, carefully avoiding her gaze. "And I nearly destroyed her life."

The picture came clear.

There was a part of her – a selfish, petty part – that took some measure of gratification in hearing and imagining how lost he'd been without her during that time. How another woman – a beautiful, intelligent and courageous woman by all accounts – had sought his affections and been rejected, and how she had lived in the shadow of the memory of _her_ – Rose Tyler, the lowly shop girl.

So she wondered about the woman, and what it must've been like for her, living with him, travelling with him, putting her life in his hands during that time. How had they met? What had attracted her to him? How did she show it to him, and how had he reacted? She knew that Martha's love had been unrequited, yet somehow he must have provided enough encouragement to keep her with him for that year they were together.

Living a lie like that for so long had seemed incomprehensible to her at first, but after a few months of living with his duplicate, and even more so after he left Torchwood, well she began to have an inkling of what it must've been like for the lovely Dr. Jones.

* * *

The months that followed his departure from Torchwood were a blur of worry, grief and increasing resentment for her – and for him as well. He did as he vowed to do, striking out on his own in an attempt to live the life of the Doctor as he had always done – but it was a half-life at best because at the same time, they were still trying to maintain the semblance of a normal, modern human couple living together. He went out, he fought the alien threats that Torchwood couldn't be bothered with, he got injured more often than not, and then he came home to her every night, or every few nights at least, spoke a few words to her and fell asleep.

There was no more running away from the aftermath of his scrapes, and now that there was no more Torchwood either, the messes he left behind started to catch up with him.

In the past, he'd never given a second thought to the trail of destruction he left in his wake. Stolen cars, demolished dwellings – they had always been quickly forgotten and left for others to deal with.

But now the messes mounted up, and Rose began to take on the task of tidying up after him – dealing with the police reports, insurance claims and the like that he was hardly even aware needed to be addressed.

And the more she tried to help, the more he resented it.

So he tried to deal with it all himself, but having no knowledge of, or patience for bureaucracy he often made matters worse in the process, and then it was her turn to be resentful.

* * *

She always thought it was laughable in the worst way – and yet still entirely appropriate – that his undoing ended up being brought about by the most petty of offences.

One August night, he didn't come home. At the time, she thought nothing of it; he had mentioned something about a vague alien threat around Soho the day before, so she assumed he was off dealing with that.

When two nights passed, she still had no concerns, but by the third night, the worry started to nag at her.

On the fourth night she began phoning all the local hospitals, and by the morning of the fifth day, she was in a panic. So she enlisted all of Torchwood to track him down.

He was found by the end of the day in a London jail.

When Pete came to her with the news, she didn't even wait for an explanation. She grabbed her keys and dashed out and by the time she arrived at the jail, it seemed that Pete had already made the necessary arrangements for his release, because he was right there, waiting for her.

They released him into her custody with no questions, and no explanations forthcoming from either the police officers or the Doctor. When he saw her, he simply got up and followed her out. She drove him home in silence and she didn't press him, but simply waited.

Surely there was an explanation here, and surely it involved his latest alien foe. At the very least, it must've been some sort of overreaction or misunderstanding brought about by his heroics.

So she waited.

And he remained silent.

The silence continued as they arrived home, parked the car and climbed the stairs to their flat; continued further as they strode in, he shucked his jacket and went into the kitchen. She followed and watched as he filled the kettle, set it on the burner and started the flame, never once turning to look at her.

She was just about to leave him alone when he spoke up at last. "Parking tickets," he murmured as he clinked his spoon aimlessly on the mug in front of him.

"Excuse me?"

"I was arrested for parking tickets," he said flatly. He turned round with a cold and angry stare that dared her to laugh at him. "Apparently I've ignored a number of them for too long."

She gaped at him. "You've been in jail for four days because of parking tickets?" Her brow furrowed. "They don't know you there? Did you mention Torchwood?"

He shook his head and looked away. "The Sergeant, it seems, has a bit of disdain for Torchwood."

"But - why didn't you just call?" She already had her suspicions.

His shoulders sagged. "I was going to," he explained half-heartedly, "but then they caught me doing some modifications on the phone and decided I was a security risk."

It might've been funny if it hadn't been for the look of death on his face.

It might've been funny if they both hadn't been so _very_ tired of it all.

He was silent for a time, shaking his head slowly as he rubbed the back of his neck. Finally he spoke up in the closest thing to outright frustration that she'd seen in him since he came home with her. "How do you do it?" he asked. "How do you keep track of it all? Your lives all ordered and structured like they're pumped out of a machine? The groceries and the washing up and the electric bills and one soap for the toilet, another for the laundry?" His eyes were shadowed, his face creased and the defeated tone in his voice was somehow far worse than any anger he might've shown. "Doesn't it drive you mad?" he asked, his eyes piercing into her.

And _that_ was the moment that she finally knew it. He was a caged animal; a rare thing of beauty completely unsuited for this life. He was going to die in captivity, and it was her fault.

It had to end.

So she swallowed hard and spoke the words that had nagged at her from the very first time she'd brought him home. "I think you need to leave."

He lifted his head and blinked, and impossibly, he looked surprised. "What?"

She felt a tear splash down her face. "You need to go. You need to run," she insisted, her fingernails digging into her palms. "Stop trying to live this life. You can't do it and I'm just holding you back."

"Rose, no." He came to face her directly and ran a hand down her arm. He ducked his head towards her and tugged her chin up. "I'm all right," he insisted softly.

And she might've given in to that; she might've taken him at his word if he hadn't gone on to add his blatant, stock falsehood. "I'm always all right."

She turned away from him, yanking her hand from his as if he'd burnt her. "Just stop it," she spat at him. "I can't listen to your lies anymore."

"Then stop telling them."

His voice was a knife at her back and her gut wrenched. She turned her head slightly in his direction. "What?"

"Stop pretending that I'm anything more in all this than a stray dog you've adopted and now you can't house train," he snarled. "You're upset with someone here, but it's not me." And for all his mood swings, all the foes she'd seen him fight over the years, she'd never been on the receiving end of his rage; not this version of him at any rate. That very fact – the restraint that he usually displayed made his torrent of anger all the more fearsome once unleashed.

Especially when she knew he was absolutely right.

She turned back to him; this stranger who'd been cast aside and put in her care like an orphaned child. "How could I be angry with you?" she asked, the truth unleashed at last. "I don't even know you."

He sighed, leaned his head back and his eyes fell closed, and the silence between them was thick like molasses. "Fair enough," he conceded. "I'll leave in the morning," he added, and he was giving in, admitting defeat and the very idea of it was horrifying.

So she tucked her hair behind her ear and asked, so tentatively, "Where will you go?"

"To the dog pound," he lashed out at her with a force that made her step away from him in alarm. He ran a hand through his hair and turned to look far off in the distance. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

She doubted it, but at least this way the disease that she'd brought to his life would be gone.

At least he'd be rid of her.

* * *

He slept on the couch that night and she tossed and turned in bed, never going deeper than a light, restless slumber. She awoke around 2:00 in the morning to nightmares and a churning stomach and in an effort to shake off the shadows of her dreams, she got up for a drink of water.

She found her way to the bathroom in the dark, used the toilet, flushed and washed her hands. She gulped down some water and stared in the mirror at her shadowed face.

When she emerged from the bathroom, he was there.

She stepped into the hallway and he moved closer, looming over her in the dark. His breath was short and smelled of danger, and she took a step backwards into the corner between the bathroom and bedroom and didn't look at him.

"Rose," he whispered and the sound of her name sliced through the dark.

Her reply was more of a breath than a syllable.

His shape was only barely discernible; the sound and smell of him were much more vivid as he shifted his stance. "Rose, what if..." he broke off again.

She shook her head, denying any possibility he had to offer, and it spurred him to action as he reached out and grabbed her by the wrist and then he was _there_, in all the space around her and his presence was suffocating.

"What if I told you..." his hold on her wrist tightened as his voice tightened. She twisted, tried to free her hand from his grasp but he fought her, refused to release her. He sucked in a breath. "What if I told you that we switched places?"

She drew back as much as she could and wished the wall would swallow her up. "Who did?" she breathed as she twitched in the cold dark, her every muscle wanting to flee from the hateful untruth that he was about to tell.

He grabbed her other wrist, lifted them both up and pressed her hands to the wall, pressed himself to her. "Him and me," he whispered into her face, and she could hear it when his tongue touched his teeth, when it wet his lips.

She turned her face away. "Liar."

"At Bad Wolf Bay," he sighed into her ear, the heat sending shivers down her body. "What if I told you that we switched? It's _me._ _I'm_ the real me." He pressed closer, his heat searing into her. "The duplicate's off in the other universe with the TARDIS."

She squirmed under his grasp. "Stop it," she hissed into his shoulder.

He thrust his knee between hers, pinning her legs in place. "I'm him," he whispered, leaning down to bite at her exposed shoulder. His tongue flicked across her skin, hot breath leaving cold wetness behind as he spoke the lie into her flesh. "I couldn't live without you. I gave up all of time and space to be with you."

She twisted harder. "_Stop it_," she bit back. She was fighting him outright now, and he knew it when she crossed the line from fighting with him to fighting against him. He released her, stepping back as she dodged away, ducked into the bedroom.

She stood there for a moment, panting with exertion but then he was there behind her, grabbing her by the arm and this time she let him. His grasp moved up to her shoulders, tugging at her skin as his teeth and tongue worked up her neck. He whispered precariously in her ear, "It's _me_, Rose. It's always been me." One hand stroked down her arm, the backs of his fingers brushing on the side of her breast and making her shudder.

Just for a moment she thought about it; she imagined the lie.

The gasp that escaped her lips was not even a whisper but it was all the encouragement he needed.

"Say it," he instructed a low rumble in her ear as his hands clutched her hips, pressing her back into him. "Who am I?" His tongue licked her ear and she trembled.

She shut her eyes and shook her head, denying him, but when he started raking fingers through her hair, his nails scraping her scalp as he pulled on handfuls of hair, she moaned. "Who am I, Rose?" he asked – commanded again as he bit at the soft flesh of her neck.

"I don't know," she whispered. Her hands moved to find his hips behind her before falling back to her sides empty.

He punished her with a shove that bumped her shins on the bed frame, sent her tumbling down face first onto the bed and then he was lying on top of her, pressing her down so she could barely breathe. "Say it," he ordered, raking fingernails over her scalp, grabbing fistfuls of hair.

She arched her back, raising her bottom up in a motion to twist out from under him, but the motion was misread as he let out a moan that echoed into her and out her mouth. "I – don't – know," she gasped.

Her voice was weak and breathless and he eased his pressure against her, allowing her lungs to fill with air at last. He released hold on her hair. "Please," he begged. "Rose, please just say it." His hips ground into her from behind. "Lie to me," he pleaded.

It was the same voice, the same face, the same hands, one stroking at her neck, the other at her side, fingering her skin exposed by her lifted shirt. The same memories were in his head, haunting the lesser man with what he would never be, and after all, it wasn't like she'd never said it before.

So she shut her eyes and pictured another universe; a lost soul in a blue box and she gave him what he needed.

"Doctor," she choked.

He groaned again and they both surrendered to the fantasy; the lie that was the only thing left between them. And they both knew that the very action of her surrender both proved him, and proved how _wrong_ he would always be.

* * *

Afterwards, she lay on her side, turned away from him as she sobbed into her pillow as quietly as she could manage. It was only from his lack of movement that she knew he was still there; only because she hadn't heard him leave. He could be lying there unconscious or dead, but she knew he was still there.

The darkness pressed down on her, swallowed her up in cold emptiness as she shivered under the thin, sweaty sheet.

"Rose," he finally spoke aloud. His voice was low and coarse and sounded so distant across the void that separated them.

She sniffled. "Mm."

"If..." he swallowed and started again. "If he came back for you – if he wanted you – would you go?"

She sucked in a breath as the real extent of her guilt came clear.

All this time she'd been telling herself that _he_ was the problem – that _he_ was the one unsuited for this life together. She'd been blind to the fact that he'd known all along – it was _her_. The original Doctor had left her on that beach, taken the blue box to the other universe, taken her heart with it, and much as she'd tried to forge a new life with the duplicate, he'd always known that he was no more than a cheap counterfeit in her eyes.

She'd failed him and this was her penance.

"I don't know," she confessed in a tiny whisper.

She lay awake and immobile, cold and numb, listening to her heart beat. He didn't move, made no sound, no reaction and eventually she drifted off into a tortured slumber.

When she woke in the morning, he was gone.

* * *

It's months later and he's still gone, and she's still picking up the pieces of the broken life he'd left behind, trying to move on, constantly being pulled back into their shared torment, because she thought she'd paid her penance in anguish, but now she's paying it in blood as well.

She manages to get herself to the hospital.

Dr. Marwood from Torchwood meets her there; answers her questions as best she can.

It's not good enough.

"_Why did this happen?"_

"_There's no way to know, Rose. Miscarriage is common enough as it is, but the complicating factors in your pregnancy – there's just no way to know if the Time Lord genes played a role or not."_

"_Is there something I could've done? To prevent it, I mean. I know I wasn't being careful..."_

"_Rose, don't do this to yourself. Your baby was fine after your accident; there's no indication whatsoever that any action on your part led to this. Sometimes these things just happen."_

She nods and then she's left alone.

There are voices and people all round her, bustling about with the business of everyday life and they don't see her because she's not one of them. She gave up on everyday life long ago and extraordinary life has given up on her.

The sun fades outside and she's plunged into darkness. She's not sure if she's asleep or awake; dead or alive because they all feel the same.

The lump in her throat is dry and rough.

The night lasts an eternity.

* * *

The cold sun is up in the morning and somebody brings breakfast. Someone else insists that she eat, threatens to keep her there if she won't, so she chokes down the tasteless food.

Dr. Marwood comes to see her again with a grim face and pursed lips, and informs her that they've done some tests on the expelled tissue. "Well, Rose, you can take heart in knowing it was nothing you did that caused this."

She looks up at the dark-skinned woman. "You've found a cause?"

Dr. Marwood shifts, shoves a folder of papers under her arm. "'Cause' isn't quite the right word," she explains, "but we can definitely say this wasn't your run-of-the-mill miscarriage."

Her heart stops. "What do you mean?"

The woman draws up a chair. "Rose, the tissue sample showed a distinct regression in cell development. Almost as if the foetus had been growing backwards. Degenerating."

She swallows hard. "But – why would that happen?"

Dr. Marwood shakes her head. "We really don't know." Her brow creases with a question. "You haven't been time-travelling recently, have you?"

She shakes her head vigorously. "No! I couldn't if I wanted to."

The woman presses her lips together with a nod. "That's what I thought. Well, it's something for the Torchwood scientists to look into if they choose. In the meantime, there's no lasting damage to your body. The soreness and bleeding should decline over the next few days, so call me at once if you notice otherwise. I want to run a few more routine tests, and make sure you get at least one more good meal into you. Other than that, I think we can probably release you later this afternoon."

She nods mutely. _No lasting damage_, she mulls.

* * *

She rummages through her bag, finds her mobile and dials the number. It rings once, twice, and then his voice answers on the other end. "Hello?"

She's been fumbling in the dark, trying to find her way without even knowing where it is she's trying to get to. And then he found her and showed her the way home.

She breathes, and the air surrounds her, and she's alive.

And it hurts.

"John?" she sobs.

_tbc_


	17. Chapter 17: Recovery and Repentance

**Chapter 17: Recovery and Repentance**

She's released back into the world that afternoon.

John is there with her, to drive her home, to carry her belongings. He's also there, not to press her, not to ask too many questions, but just to be.

She watches him as he drives and the tears are there again – always there just above or below the surface, and she thinks that she doesn't know what she would've done without him, because she's not ready to discuss it with Mum, and she's certainly not in any state to face _him_ with the news – not after his performance yesterday.

So she watches John and she thinks that "Thank you," doesn't begin to cover it, but she says it anyway.

He purses his lips and smiles just a little, and somehow he knows that she doesn't want a response.

He holds the door for her as they enter her flat, carries her bags in and sets them on the floor, and then he glances awkwardly about the room.

She doesn't want him to leave.

She doesn't want him to leave, but she doesn't want to talk, so she thinks of a way to accomplish both. "Can I get you some tea?" she offers.

"Sit down, I'll get it," he gestures to the sofa, and she complies gladly; she's tired and wobbly from two days of sorrow and lying in bed.

She sits and flips through a magazine, not really reading any of the articles until he returns from the kitchen with a steaming cuppa, which he sets on the coffee table in front of her. "Can I get you anything else?" he offers.

She shakes her head and reaches for the mug with her good hand. She cups her other hand round it, skin and plaster cast making the motion somewhat awkward as she tries to feel the heat, to see if it can permeate her haze. "You having any?" she asks.

He shoots a look over at the door. "I thought you might prefer to be alone. I could..."

"No," she interjects with a fervour that takes her by surprise, leaving her feeling raw and exposed, so she backpedals. "I mean, I'm probably not great company right now, but if you'd like to stay..." she leaves the sentence unfinished.

He stays.

A half hour later, they're both finished their tea, he's reading the newspaper and she's still flipping aimlessly through magazines as if she's misplaced something between the pages. Her eyelids are starting to feel heavy so she sets the magazine down and gets to her feet. "I'm going to go lie down," she tells him. "Just for a bit. You can stay as long as you like – there's food in the fridge, you can watch telly."

He looks unsure so she adds, "Please," and he relaxes and gives a tiny nod.

She turns and heads towards her room, but then his voice stops her.

"Rose." She looks back at him as he gazes at her intently over the newspaper. "I'm so sorry."

She nods and swallows hard and manages to hold back the tears until she's safely in her room, curled in her bed.

Finally she buries her head under her pillow and allows the sobs to overtake her.

Some time later she wakes, the room is pitch black and she knows she's slept much longer than she'd planned. She still feels tired and wonders what could've woken her, until she hears a voice, indistinct but clearly distraught, coming from outside her door.

She climbs out of bed and pads down the hallway to the living room, where she finds John stretched out on the sofa, muttering as he sleeps fretfully. "...must stop! Grace, I'm not like you..."

A thought flits through her mind as she wonders who Grace is, but she pushes it aside. She feels like an intruder, listening to him like this, so she leaves and finds her way back to her room. She closes the door, flicks on the light and goes over to the closet to find him a blanket. There's a stack of them on the top shelf, so she takes one, switches off the light returning the room to darkness, and winds her way back to the living room, where she unfolds the blanket and lays it on him.

He's still tossing about with restless sleep and he writhes underneath the blanket like a prisoner straining against his bonds. In spite of herself, she runs a hand gently down his face, and she's immediately sorry when he gives an enormous shudder and cries out, "Alastair, why can't I remember? Don't you know me?"

She kneels on the floor next to him, grasps his shoulder and gives it a gentle shake to startle away the nightmare, and then suddenly his eyes are open – blue and vacant and terrified. His breath is short and he's grabbing her shoulders for dear life.

"Shh," she calms him, moving his hands off of her, squeezing them reassuringly before placing them by his sides. She strokes his hair and leans into him, her nose brushing his hair as she whispers into his ear, "It's just a dream."

He relaxes, his eyes close and he murmurs, "Rose," and her name sounds like something sacred, like he's travelling the heavens in his dreams and speaking to her from amongst the gods. "Rose, I can't remember. I can't remember anything."

She lays a finger on his lips. "Go back to sleep," she whispers soothingly and before she's done saying it, he is.

She wakes again – this time in the morning – to the sound of him puttering in the kitchen.

A look at the clock shows that it's early; she remembers that it's a weekday and he needs to go to work.

She's on leave for the next week and has nowhere to go. She considers staying in bed but wants to see him before he's off so she tosses on some trousers and shirt, uses the loo, and then she winds her way down the hall to the living room.

Her gaze travels round the empty room; the blanket is folded neatly, sitting on the sofa, the cushions are straightened and smoothed out. The sun is shining in the window, casting rectangles of light on the floor but somehow failing to warm the room.

Or maybe it's just her that the heat can't reach.

She notices the potted plant on the windowsill, and she shakes her head to herself with a cynical laugh. She swears she just watered it the other day but apparently she can't even keep a simple house-plant alive because now it's brown, shrivelled, and dead.

She enters the kitchen and finds him at work at the stove, delicious scents permeating the air. He hears her approach and greets her without turning round. "Ah, Rose, I hope I didn't wake you. I need to get home and get showered before work but I thought I'd leave you a nice breakfast before I go."

"S'all right," she says. She feels awkward, standing there, so she shifts her weight between her feet and tugs at the hem of her shirt. "I'm sorry I slept so long. You didn't need to stay all night." She decides to make some tea, so she goes over to the stove, picks up the kettle and turns to the sink to fill it.

Deftly, he removes it from her hands and turns on the tap to fill it himself. "Oh, it's no problem," he replies. "I can sleep anywhere. Thank you for the blanket, by the way." He turns back to the stove to set the water to boil, gives a stir to the eggs and mushrooms in the frying pan, and lifts up a spoonful to take a taste.

She hesitates, and then asks, "What were you dreaming about?"

"I beg your pardon?" He turns and holds the spoon to her lips, offering her a taste.

She opens her mouth and the food meets her tongue. The mushrooms are warm and tender; the eggs have a hint of onion and not too much salt in them. She nods in appreciation. "You were talking in your sleep when I was up in the middle of the night," she explains.

He frowns and shakes his head. "I can't recall." He switches off the stove, opens a cabinet and retrieves two plates from it. "Charley tells me I do it frequently. I suppose it's to be expected with the mad dreams that I often have."

She can't help prodding him further. "Who's Grace?"

He starts dishing out the food onto the plates, so she can't see his face. "Just someone I used to know," he shrugs.

"Old girlfriend?" She feels a smile forming.

He gives a grunt that means yes, before turning to shove a plate into her hands like it's a mess he wants her to clean. "Here, I hope you're hungry."

"A man cooking breakfast for me? I'm not about to pass that up," she smiles, accepting the plate and taking a seat at the table.

The potatoes are a little undercooked, but the sausage is perfectly sweet and savoury in her mouth, and the eggs balance out the meal just so. He sits with her, and the conversation is light, the good night's sleep having taken the edge off her loss. The ache is still there; the emptiness in her body in the place where there was – well, she's not quite certain _what_ she's lost, and she knows it's a question that's going to be with her for some time.

But for now, she's got breakfast and she's got John and it's enough.

He starts to do the washing up; objects when she tells him that she'll do it, and it's only when she points out that he has less than an hour to get home and get showered that she finally convinces him to leave it to her.

She follows him into the living room, where he slings on his jacket and makes his way over to the door. She's waiting to bid him goodbye, but he reaches for the doorknob before he stops himself, pivots on his heels to face her. He reaches out a hand to touch her shoulder; to touch the fabric of her short sleeve so lightly, as if he's afraid she'll break just that easily. His fingers brush down her arm to give her hand a squeeze and then he gives a tug and she's throwing her arms round his neck and breathing in through his hair.

"You'll be all right?" he whispers into her ear, and the pitch of his voice lingers there like a caress.

She loosens her grip, slides her hands down to spread palms over his chest. "Of course," she scoffs. "I'm fine."

"Have you told your parents?"

She sighs and looks down at the space between them. "Not yet. I just need to process it all – I'll call them in a few days."

His hands are on her shoulders as he ducks his head to prod her with his gaze. "Have you told _him_?"

He already knows the answer, and she knows it. She bites her lip and shakes her head guiltily. "I can't deal with him right now."

"Rose..." he warns.

"I'll tell him," she insists, with wide eyes as she bobs her head insistently. "I know I need to. It's just..." she breaks off with a sigh. "I saw him." Her fingers wind round to grasp his lapels and squeeze bunches of fabric tightly.

His brow furrows. "You did? When?"

"Saturday morning, he came to see me." She turns and speaks to his shoulder. "It didn't go well."

He pulls her into an embrace, his hands moving to hold her close round her waist as her grasp travels back up and around his neck, bumping his ear slightly with her plaster cast. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

She suspects it's not entirely true, but it's a lie based in compassion and she appreciates it.

He wraps her in his warmth, and the memory of that disastrous visit slips away, like the blood that's still passing from her as it expels something so fleeting and short-lived, leaving her behind to grieve, to heal, and to move on.

Nelson looks like he's aged about fifteen years since he last saw him.

The young Torchwood employee – the boy he'd tasked with maintaining his Time Monitor upon his departure – looks haggard, unkempt, and far beyond distraught when the Doctor knocks on his door that Wednesday morning.

His investigation hasn't yielded any helpful information, largely due to his lack of access to the proper equipment. If he had a temporal field extrapolator and a horometrical probe, he's fairly certain he'd be able to narrow this down in a matter of hours. But all that equipment departed him a year ago, gone back to the other universe aboard the blue box, leaving him empty-handed.

The next best option is the laboratories at Torchwood.

But to involve Torchwood means bringing Pete – and _her_, and by default the entire Tyler clan – into the mix, and he's determined not to do that except as a last resort.

So his only other option is covert communication with Nelson.

The boy opens the door, and his eyes widen at the sight of him standing on his doorstep, and he looks like he's about to burst into tears of relief. He ushers him into his flat and his tale of woe spills from him, a torrent of desperation and terror, because Pete has been pressing him, browbeating him for some results on what's causing the anomalies in Time that they've observed, and Nelson hasn't been able to find a single common factor between them.

He has, however, managed to construct a rudimentary containment field around the Rift in Cardiff that's made out of replicated components of the Time Monitor itself that Nelson has studied and recreated, adapting them for a slightly different purpose.

He's more than a little bit impressed with the boy's ingenuity.

When he reveals to Nelson what the commonality is between the anomalies – that _he's_ the missing link – the boy sits down with a thump, gives a deep sigh, and the Doctor can practically see his blood pressure drop.

But they're still far, far from understanding the problem, much less solving it, so he writes up a set of instructions: readings to take, facts to catalogue and cross-reference using the instrumentation of the Torchwood laboratories, and he sends Nelson on his way.

He does _not_ tell the boy anything regarding the worsening physical effect that these anomalies are having on him. That's almost secondary at this point, and it was hard enough already to convince him of the need for silence on this.

He just hopes that Nelson returns with some useful information.

_tbc_


	18. Chapter 18: Confrontations and Candour

**Chapter 18:**** Confrontations and Candour**

After John leaves, she's got the rest of the day on her own. The rest of the day and the rest of the week, because Dr. Marwood prohibited work in any form for seven days. She's notified Torchwood that she won't be in; made up a vague illness to attribute it to.

Tony's at school, everyone else she knows is at work and she has no idea what she's going to do with herself.

She spots the dead plant on the windowsill again; a sob rises up out of nowhere, and she thinks that it's probably best that she has this time alone, with the way her emotions are veering wildly in all directions right now.

_Rest, relax, take it easy,_ Dr. Marwood had said, so she takes an extra-long shower and then flicks on the telly and channel-surfs for a time.

That's going nowhere, so she rummages through the items on the coffee table in search of some reading material. There's an assortment of magazines, all of which she's read. There's a dirty mug sitting next to a candle that she can't recall ever seeing before, and then she comes across her mobile, and she switches it on to check her messages.

There's one from Mum; she called the other day to invite her to supper, and she makes a mental note to call her back and make sure she knows she can't pick up Tony later. She might tell her the news too; she hasn't decided yet. It needs to be done, of course, but she's been on the receiving end of Mum's pity far too much, especially in the past few months, and she's not sure she's ready for another dose of it today.

Or she could just email her about this afternoon and leave it at that.

She switches off the phone, climbs into bed and spends the afternoon in a half-sleep, where she dreams she's wrapped in a blood-stained shroud, black and taut, and every breath she chokes through the fabric reeks of poison.

John comes by that evening just to check on her. He brings a pizza and a mystery novel for her, and he shares an anecdote from school involving Tony, an apple, and some purple paint, and then he leaves her alone again.

By Wednesday evening, she's sick of the sight of her bedroom walls around her. Her body is numb and lethargic from so much sleep, and she's tired of being tired. She's desperate to get out, and when John calls, she hopes he's checking to see if he can come over to see her tonight. But no, he has some work to do on a lesson plan – if she needs him he'll come, but otherwise he needs to stay home and work.

She tells him she's fine and she's about to hang up when he blurts out the question. "Have you told anyone yet?"

Her first impulse is to snap at him that it's none of his business, but she bites it back. It's defensiveness, that's all, and she doesn't want to take it out on him, so she shuts her eyes and breathes deeply, and then she answers half the question, "I'm going to call Mum tomorrow."

He's silent, waiting for the rest of the answer, and when the silence stretches long enough to indicate that it's not coming, he probes. "Rose, what are you afraid of?" He says it quietly, slowly, like whatever it is, he's afraid of it too.

She sinks into the sofa and folds one of the cushions over herself, squeezing it close. The question is enormous; there are more answers than she can even begin to verbalise to herself, let alone to him, but she can at least share the easiest one with him. "I guess…" she stammers, "I guess I'm afraid of how he'll react."

"You're afraid he won't care?"

"Yeah." She lets go of the cushion and folds her legs to her chest, wraps her arms round them and the plaster cast scrapes on her knees. "And I'm afraid he will too. Either way's just too much, you know?"

But that's only one tiny reason, she knows, and she further knows that John is tied into the emotional muddle in her mind that's keeping her from making the call. Because when it was just her on her own, anything was possible, even after _he_ left. But now there's John, and the only thing tying her to the old life was that tiny thread, the seed that was growing inside her, still connecting her to her life across space and time.

She's not even sure she wants that life any more, yet she can't quite seem to let go of the thread.

It's a painful truth, and it's one that isn't lost on John, even if she can't admit it to him aloud. She hears his silence on the other end; knows he's biting his tongue and treading so gently with her. "Rose," he finally sighs, "He's going to find out eventually. Wouldn't it be better to get it over with?"

"Yeah, I know you're right," she agrees after a pause.

"All right, then," he says. "Get some rest and I'll check in on you tomorrow."

She hangs up the phone and wonders why he's still bothering with her.

She switches it off, stretches out on the sofa and opens a book, and fifteen minutes later she's asleep.

The next day the walls are shouting at her, taunting her with insult and invective and she needs to get out. So she goes for a short walk through the park, she browses through a few shops and stops for a coffee and a snack.

It feels good to breathe again.

She means to call Mum, but she doesn't get back until after 4:00 and she's just had time to take off her shoes and put away her purchases when there's a buzz at the door.

She opens it and it's John, come to surprise her with wine and pasta and garlic bread for supper. He strides in and carries his load of groceries into the kitchen, spreads it all out on the counter as he runs through a commentary of the meal he's planning.

She offers to help cook, so he searches through the bags, extracts an onion and hands it to her. Then he starts opening her cabinets and rummaging through them in search of ingredients. "What've you been doing today?" he asks, his head hidden behind a cabinet door as he speaks.

She turns the onion over in her hands. "Not much," she replies. "I went out for a walk, did a little shopping."

"Have you spoken to your mother?" He shuts the door and turns to her, and his face is blank and unreadable, and something about it makes the question far less hypothetical that it ought to be.

"I was going to call her tonight," she replies slowly, wondering what she's missing here. It's definitely something because he frowns and looks at the floor when she says it.

Then she makes the connection: he's Tony's teacher, after all. "You saw her," she infers and when he nods, she sees the whole story, "You told her."

His gaze goes up to the ceiling and then lands on her, soft yet unapologetic. "Rose, she was _worried_. You've missed work for four days and nobody knows why. You haven't been answering her calls."

She's suddenly ravaged by a wave of anger that surges up from her gut with a frightening intensity, before it turns outward. "You had no right…" she seethes at him.

He turns away, and it's not done out of remorse. "No, I hadn't, you're right," he says and the acidity in his tone eats away at any agreement in his words. "I've got no right to do anything, have I?" he bites at her. Then he gives a sigh and turns down the hallway. "Sorry," he mumbles, "I'll be right back." He gestures vaguely in the direction of the bathroom and disappears.

She watches him go in stunned silence. Then she sighs, goes to the counter, picks up a knife and starts chopping the onion.

They take turns being silent and awkward with each other for the rest of the evening. Or maybe it's just her; maybe it's just one more factor to add to her wildly vacillating moods, and one more conveniently present-and-accounted-for person to target them at. Because he's said he's sorry, but she suspects he isn't really, and she's only succeeding in swallowing her ire some of the time.

He tries to turn the conversation to something safe – the day's events in his classroom, the book he's reading, but her monosyllables and the way she stabs viciously at her food detract from his efforts; infect him with her silences.

Then she remembers the look on his face and shifts into apologetic mode as she segues into her trip to the book store today.

And that's when the sound of the doorbell startles her out of her tale.

She's not expecting anyone, and she can't imagine who it could be. She frowns quizzically at John, who's poking at his food with his fork, and she excuses herself, makes her way into the living room and opens the door.

And there he is, all tall and brown and grey, dressed in jeans, a jumper, and trainers. Her heart is pounding like a caged animal and her mind has gone blank, because he's here, and it's too soon. She's not ready to deal with him; she's not ready to share the news with him and bear the weight of his reaction – whatever it might be.

She's being nudged closer and closer to the edge of a cliff and she can't reach the rope to hang on.

"Rose, are you all right?" he asks. "Your Mum called – said you had something to tell me…"

_Your Mum called_. She hears John enter the living room behind her, and the anger flares inside her, directed at him again for putting her in this position. Somehow it centres her, directs all her distress out and away at an external target and now she's able to look at the Doctor and really see him. He looks even thinner than usual, swimming inside the too-large jeans he's wearing, and he's still munching away on crisps from the bag in his hand. There are new worry lines round his eyes, and she wonders what Mum could've said to him, because he relaxes visibly when he sees her.

"I'm fine," she starts to say, but she breaks off when she looks up at him again.

She breaks off because his eyes are wide and there's incredulity and thunder on his face, and it's an expression she's only ever seen on him when he's been faced with something utterly preposterous and utterly _wrong_.

And impossibly, it's directed at John.

When the Doctor speaks again, it's one small syllable. "You," he breathes.

The look on John's face is far beyond confusion as he glances to the left and then to the right as if searching for the real target of the other man's attention; as if he couldn't possibly be talking to him.

"What are you doing here?" the Doctor demands, finding his voice again.

John frowns, glances over at Rose before turning his questioning gaze back to the taller man. "I'm sorry, have we met before?"

The Doctor rolls his eyes with insight and impatience as he drags a hand down his face. "Oh, paradoxes are always so dull, so uncomfortable and confusing." He sighs and starts over again. "I'm you," he explains patiently. "I'm a future you." He rubs at his cheek. "Well, mostly. Well, sort of."

The two men are staring at each other across the room, and John's eyes are darting about in bewilderment, but Rose, at least, has an inkling of what he's getting at. "Doctor – what are you saying?"

He turns the incredulous look to her. "You mean you didn't know? Did he tell you he was human? Posing as John Smith, I suppose?"

The sound of his name is like a blow to her gut, and it leaves her breathless and confused and her world is crashing down around her as she looks at the man she thought she was falling in love with, and suddenly his chestnut curls and his slight frame are completely alien to her.

But then he speaks up and his eyes find her the same way they always have. "Rose," he pleads, and nothing makes any sense. "Rose, I have no idea who this man is or what he's saying." He steps to her, reaches for her but she's too far away and she doesn't move closer.

But the Doctor begs to differ. "Rose, _he_ is _me_. My eighth body, just before the Time War, which explains why I don't remember this – that entire incarnation is a bit muddled – but I assure you, I know him, I've _been_ him, he's a Time Lord. _He _is_ me_."

"And _I_ assure you," John chimes in with more force in his voice than she's ever heard him use, "that I haven't the slightest idea what this is about, and this man needs to have his head examined."

She shoots a horrified glance back and forth between the two of them, and that's when they start alternately arguing with each other and pleading with her and their words are meaningless as they ring in her ears; yin vs. yang, black vs. white, and everything is falling out from under her and she's got nothing, nobody to hold on to.

"Enough!" she finally cries above their voices. "I've had about all I can take from the both of you!"

She grabs her purse and she flees.

_tbc_


	19. Chapter 19: Evasions and Entanglements

Chapter 19: Evasions and Entanglements

He watches her go and it takes all his strength just to remain standing.

His younger self doesn't look much better as he steps towards the door, starts to follow her and then hesitates. The man's face is pained and shadowed and none of it makes any sense.

Until he sees it.

It should've been obvious. It _would've_ been obvious if he could see straight; if reality weren't in constant flux like a kaleidoscope around the edges of his perception. If he didn't have to close his eyes and breathe deeply just to keep himself from vomiting. But then Time folds over into the immediate past, and he has to watch Rose run off again; has to see the anguish on her face, knowing he's the cause of it – _again – _andthen he finally notices how the other man doesn't flinch in the least.

As if he didn't even notice the anomaly.

As if he were human.

He raises his eyebrows and studies his other self through his glasses, and sure enough, there's no trace of temporal residuals around him. None whatsoever. This man _is_ human, and he's never travelled in time. Not since the day he was born.

Or the day he came into existence, which is not necessarily the same thing.

It's not the same thing at all, in fact, and he needs to figure out which one it is, because this is a parallel world, and anything is possible. Mickey had a double here, Jackie had a double; it's possible - albeit unlikely, but still possible - that his eighth self has a human double.

He needs to figure it out, and he needs to figure it out fast, because if this _is_ his previous self in human form, his presence here is almost certainly tied into whatever it is that's feeding off of him right now.

The other man turns to leave. "I'm going after her," he says, and that's when the Doctor remembers why he came to Rose's flat in the first place. "Wait." he says, eyeing up the shorter man and bristling at the thought that this impostor probably has the answers to his questions; that this shadow of his previous self knows what's happening here better than he does, but he may as well take advantage whilst he can. So he frowns and runs a hand through his hair. "What's going on here?" he asks. "Jackie said that Rose had something to tell me."

His previous likeness draws in a breath, darts his eyes at him and away again. "She..." he begins before breaking off. He shakes his head with a sigh. "Just talk to Rose," he says finally. He throws one more look out the door where she went, clearly itching to follow her. His jaw clenches and his fists tighten. "Talk to Jackie if you need to," he insists, and then he steps towards the door, his restraint teetering on the edge. "I need to find her," he says, and then he disappears and the door closes behind him.

There's something about the his sombre tone, the way it's tinged with pity that makes the Doctor's insides freeze, because he's worn that expression so many times himself. _Rose has something to tell you_. There's only one thing linking him with Rose any more; only one thing this could be about. He opens the door and steps into the hallway where the other man is already several doors down.

"John," he says after him. It's his name, after all.

John stops. Doesn't turn around.

"The baby," he chokes out, his heart hammering in his chest. "Is everything all right?"

John pivots, his brow is creased and his eyes move across and back before falling on him reluctantly. But when they do, their eyes lock and an understanding is forged, if only for a moment, between the two of them. It's an understanding that's completely human and intrinsically discerning and sorrowful, and even before John says anything, he knows his worst fears are true.

"I'm sorry," John murmurs, and then he's gone.

He couldn't follow if he tried.

* * *

Rose hears footsteps behind her; hears John calling her name but she doesn't stop.

She finds her car, gets in, and she drives.

She chokes down all the anguish, heads for the motorway, and then she drives for a good half hour before she permits herself a stop.

She pulls over into an empty car park and closes her eyes and the scene in the living room is right there again, frozen in time, hovering in her mind to torment her like an open, throbbing wound. She's suffocating; she can't think, can't feel the biting cold around her. She can't even cry.

So she screams, as loud as she can. She pounds her fists on the steering wheel and she rages until finally everything dissolves back into tears.

She's not sure how long she sits there consumed by sobs; it was dark when she stopped and it's still dark. She's tired from days of exhaustion and emotion and spent grief dragging her down, but she can't go home.

So she drives some more. She takes the motorway out of the city, turns off at a side road and drives aimlessly for another hour at least.

Finally she finds a motel and stops for the night.

* * *

The Doctor wastes a day sorting through the list of John Smiths in London. He's got the phone book, and he's got the Internet, and with Nelson's help he's got the resources of Torchwood, and after twelve hours they've come up with nothing.

His breath is getting short and his body is having some sort of temperature-regulation issue; he's alternating between sweating and shivering. He's fairly certain that Nelson has noticed.

This is all compounded by the fact that he's finding it almost impossible to work his way down a list of John Smiths and keep track of his progress when Time keeps skipping forward and back, making reality look like it's being played on a broken DVD player.

And then suddenly one of those fragments replays in his mind and he remembers his previous self's - _John's, _he corrects himself - John's words to him yesterday. _Talk to Jackie if you need to_, and he knows his former self - _all_ of them - would've railed at him for not thinking of it sooner.

He has plenty of things to blame his stupidity on: his Time-muddled brain, the fever and disorientation that are increasing noticeably with every hour, his half-human wits that were never as sharp even back when he was healthy. But there's something else that's muddling with his focus, wrapping his every action, his every thought in despair, making this entire effort seem utterly futile and hopeless.

Because his child is gone.

He'd tried so hard to distance himself from the thought of having and knowing his own human child, but ever since he saw Rose just a few days ago, the prospect had been working its way into him, creeping past his inhibitions and into his heart with the image of a tiny human body, warn and messy, helpless and irrational, born from his flesh and full of love.

Humans – so very irrational and so very passionate; it was what he had always loved and hated both about the species. And now that he was one of them, he'd spent all his time hating himself for it, despising the witlessness and ignoring the spirit and the power that they were capable of.

That _he_ was capable of.

And now he's gone and ruined it all, because the timing can't have been a coincidence. The miscarriage happened right after he went to see her; right after that anomaly hit him like an explosion in his face while she'd stood in his presence, completely unaware that his very proximity to her was going to kill their child.

He's spreading his poison everywhere he goes. If he thought - if he _knew_ that he could end this mess by sacrificing himself he'd do it; he'd do it readily and it would be a relief. But he doesn't think it's going to be so easy.

So he kicks himself for his idiocy and he dials Jackie's number on the phone.

And then he's subjected to her shrill voice, the barrage of indictments that she lobs at him like grenades thrown from behind a bunker: for making Rose unhappy, for abandoning her during her pregnancy and miscarriage. She won't let him get in a single word and he's just about to conclude that he's wasting his time, when she informs him - rather smugly - that Rose has moved on; she's dating a certain teacher from Tony's school by the name of John Smith.

The news wrenches through him in a deluge of heartache and triumph, jealousy and relief that are all perfectly befitting to his human heart.

* * *

She wanders, driving at random for the next few days. When she's tired, she stops and finds a room. When she's hungry, she finds a café and when she needs clothes or supplies, she finds a shop. And when she's none of these things, she drives some more.

The compulsion to run, to flee, to get far, far away consumes her like it never has before. She presses down the pedal and drives faster, but she can't ever seem to go fast enough because she still can't get away from her thoughts. She can't stop her mind from wandering back to _him. _

She thinks of him on his home planet all those centuries ago, and wonders what it was that made him start running.

She tries to make the wondering stop there, though, because if she doesn't, she'll start wondering things like how his younger self could even be in this universe, and whether he has the TARDIS with him. Then she'll start wondering how he could've lied to her so many times, in so many ways after all the time they spent together. The John she _thought_ she knew would _never_ lie to her like that - nor would the Doctor, and she _definitely_ stops herself before continuing on with any more comparisons like that.

So now it's three days later and she finds herself somewhere in Cornwall and the view is breathtaking. The air smells of the salty sea, the wind whips around her relentlessly, faster than she could ever run, and when it pounds on her, she feels like it's battering away her sins.

There's something about it that's oddly familiar, like a place she's dreamt about and now she discovers is real. So she finds a small inn, checks in, and she stays.

She eats, sleeps, she watches telly, she takes long walks on the beach. When she grows weary of all that, she locates a small book shop and stocks up on novels and newspapers, and she reads.

She hopes Mum isn't worried; she thinks of calling but she doesn't.

She's not sure she'll ever be ready to face either of _them_.

* * *

Three days later, the Doctor and Nelson have completed a thorough check on John Smith.

He was born on 14 November 1977 to parents Anita and Richard Smith. He grew up in a typical middle-class neighbourhood in Sussex, and when he was nineteen, he attended Keele University, eventually earning his PhD in Geophysics.

He has a birth certificate, a drivers' license, a passport and a subscription to _The Daily Telegraph_, and all of this tells the Doctor absolutely nothing, because any and all of this information could've been manufactured and provided by the TARDIS.

Nelson's investigation into what's affecting him has also come to a dead end. They've determined that there's definitely something following him – an entity or a force of nature or a live creature, they haven't been able to tell, but whatever it is, it's latched onto him and it's draining away his body's temporal energies like a tick sucking blood. It exists out of phase, which is why it can't be seen and it almost reminds him of a Gallifreyan culicidae bug, except that a culicidae bug is harmless; a nip on the ear, a skip of nanoseconds is the worst they can do. This creature - or whatever it is - is a million times more powerful and still growing exponentially.

And now he's out of options.

So he stumbles down the street towards the Torchwood offices, and he thinks that there's hardly any point in enlisting their help, but at the very least, he can tell them what he knows about what's happening.

He never makes it there.

Something catches his eye on the left.

Recognition surges through him, tugging at something deep and elemental within him and he turns towards it, squinting through his blurred vision across the street and down a block. His heart pounds adrenaline through his veins, giving him the illusion of strength as he staggers closer to it.

But maybe that's enough; maybe this burst of false energy is sufficient to keep him going just long enough.

Because now he knows. Now he's got the proof - it's staring him in the face.

He's found the TARDIS.

* * *

It's Rose's third evening in this room and she's just had a bath. She's settling in with a book for the evening when a knock comes on the door. Thinking that it's the maître d' bringing her the fresh supply of towels that she'd asked for, she pads over to the door and opens it.

The sight of John is incomprehensible and sends her heart exploding into her throat, because he's the same, and yet he seems backwards somehow, as if she's looking at his mirror image: something known, yet not quite right. He stands there, wide blue eyes peeking through shaggy hair and she wants to slam the door; she wants to grab him and shake him and it's only her inability to choose one that keeps her standing still in the doorway.

"May I come in?" he asks.

He's calm, but there's steel in him and she doesn't dare refuse.

She moves to allow him entry, he steps in and the door swings shut behind him. She can't tell if that's indignation or distress in the glimpse of cold blue in his eyes, but something about the way he carries himself is positively formidable.

She ducks her head, looks up at him and quickly looks away. "How did you find me?"

"Your father," he explains, his voice patient and restrained and so deliberate. "He enlisted Torchwood to track your car via GPS." His tone softens. "I'm sure it helped my cause that your mother seems to like me."

She breathes in, steps back over to the bed and sinks down on the edge. She buries her head in her hands and asks the question she needs to ask. "Is it true?"

He sighs, it's almost a growl, and then the restraint is gone as he takes a step to her and unleashes his questions in a flood of frustration. "Is _what_ true?" he demands, shaking his outstretched hand towards her. "Rose, I have no idea what I'm even being accused of. He thinks I'm _him_? What does that mean? And why - _why_ are you even taking this seriously?"

Nothing makes any sense. She squeezes her eyes shut, presses her palms to her temples. "Then why are you here?" she asks, disregarding his questions, because the fact that he's even asking them is far more important than any answers she could provide.

"Oh, Rose," he says and his voice is coarse as he comes over and crouches down in front of her. She lifts her head from her hands and his eyes are searching for her, searching for something inside her that's new and fledgling and known only to him. He reaches up and touches a finger to her brow, traces it down to tuck her hair behind her ear. "How can you even ask?" he breathes with a shake of his head like she's being ridiculous, but it's somehow endearing. "Rose, I had to find you. Don't you know that you're the most beautiful, the strongest, most exciting woman I've ever met?" His hand strokes her cheek, the other finds her injured hand resting on her knee and closes round her exposed fingers. "Every moment I've watched you torn up over him has ripped at my soul. Having you so angry and confused over me has been like a knife twisting in my heart every moment you've been away."

She looks down and presses into his palm that's cupping her cheek. "Your heart?" she asks and feels stupid saying it. Her eyes flutter closed. "One heart?"

He gives a tiny laugh that's more of a breath and raises their clasped hands to his lips. "One heart," his warmth whispers into her knuckles. "One heart that's been completely lost since the moment we met."

Slowly she opens her eyes and reaches out with a trembling hand. She brushes fingers over his collar and spreads her palm across his chest.

One heartbeat.

He's human.

She shuts her eyes again and shakes her head, shaking off his touch. "But why..." she protests.

She feels his thumb stroke the sensitive skin between her fingers and she can't help it - she opens her eyes again into his intent gaze that's holding her like she's something treasured, and the million unanswered questions in her mind melt away, because they don't matter. Because he's finding her; always finding her again and his fingers are brushing her cheek softly, his presence is warm with sincerity and tenderness.

All the questions are gone, and there's only certainty in her heart.

She moves her head closer. Her fingers trace upwards on his chest to find skin peeking out from his unbuttoned collar and she can feel his rapid pulse underneath.

He presses his brow to hers. "Why what?" he whispers.

She shakes her head, rolling it gently against his. "Doesn't matter," she whispers back, and he's so close that the words mingle with his breath and disappear into his mouth. "I don't care what he says. I don't care where you came from." Her breath hitches as his lips edge closer still and she meets him halfway, brushing her mouth on his in a whisper of a kiss that she feels in her fingers; makes her shake down to her toes.

"Rose," he gasps, releasing his grip on her hand and reaching up to clutch her face between his hands. She matches the motion, lifting one hand to join his, to cover it with her palm, and she feels him tremble under her touch. Her name is a question on his lips, a word of awe and beauty and she has no choice but to answer in kind.

She circles round his neck with both hands and then she's pressing her lips to his with everything she's got. He kisses her back, soft lips and firm resolve as his breath touches her, his fingers clutch and it's like being held by life itself; like being wrapped in the wind and the sea and the earth and everything that's human and good.

Their lips separate as he shifts position, kneels on the floor to better reach her and press to her. She can feel his heart racing against hers as he touches fingers to her face; brushes away the tears that are forming in her eyes. "John," she murmurs between soft kisses, each a wisp of warmth on her soul. "John, I..."

She catches his lips, nips at them and then presses for more, her tongue exploring the taste of him as their mouths move together in mirrored motions that fit together perfectly. She weaves her fingers through his hair, his hands on her back hold her to him, close but not close enough.

He pulls back, touches his forehead to hers again and squeezes his eyes shut as if he's overwhelmed; as if the sight of her would be too much to bear. "I know," he breathes, stroking fingers down her face. "I won't – it's all right," and she knows he's misunderstood.

"No," she corrects, kissing him again because she can't not. Their tongues touch delicately, slide against each other and when she speaks his lips move with hers. "I'm fine. I want you to stay," she sighs into him as she tugs gently at his neck. "Spend the night with me."

He moans and presses forward, sinks his hands into her hair as she sinks back onto the bed, pulling him down on top of her. His kisses are full and heated, deep and craving as his body overwhelms hers in human love and need, and she's alive again.

She's a human, sharing her life and love with another human, and it's enough.

It's everything she wants.

_tbc_


	20. Chapter 20: Connections & Contemplation

Chapter 20: Connections and Contemplation

* * *

Rose wakes to a darkened room. Next to her John is tossing and turning and talking in his sleep again.

She hears him murmur something about a "type forty capsule" and she strokes his cheek, gives his shoulder a gentle nudge. "John," she whispers, "It's all right, you're dreaming." She props herself up somewhat awkwardly on her injured arm, leans over to lay a kiss on his lips and he stirs, opening his mouth to respond in full. His lips are soft and he's _so_ warm and she wants him again but he's not awake, not fully, so she releases the kiss and slides back down next to him in bed.

She watches him as his chest rises and falls with each breath; she watches his face as the moonlight peeks through the blinds, landing on his fair skin that somehow magnifies the sparse light, creating an ethereal glow that seems to emanate from deep within him.

"_My eighth body, just before the Time War..."_

"_Rose, _he_ is _me_..."_

The Doctor's words echo in her mind in spite of herself.

_In spite of hard evidence to the contrary_, she reminds herself. Because he _is_ human.

_Maybe he's a double_, she mulls. _Like Mickey and Ricky, only he's a human double. It's a parallel universe, anything's possible._

She nestles in close to his side, throws an arm round him and clutches him tightly to her for the rest of the night.

* * *

The Doctor fumbles his way up the stairs to the front door of the apartment building, locates the buzzer and presses the button.

A woman's voice answers, "Yes?"

Time pauses and he clutches the handrail to keep from falling over at the impact. "Is this the home of John Smith?" he asks. "I need to speak with him."

"John is out of town," comes the crisp reply and he can't see her face but he knows she's just about done with him right there.

"Please," he interjects urgently. "Please, can you help me? I need some information about him. It's a matter of life and death."

"Who is this?" crackles her voice over the intercom.

_That's the question_, he thinks. "I'm the Doctor," he announces, wiping the sweat from his brow. He isn't, of course, but his calculated risk seems to pay off as he hears a gasp at the other end.

The buzzer sounds and he enters the building.

* * *

The door opens at his knock, revealing a young, attractive blonde girl and he doesn't know her, doesn't remember her, but there's something that tickles in the back of his mind at the sight of her.

She looks at him with trepidation, then checks herself, tosses her hair and stares at him with cold, guarded eyes that reveal no recognition.

And that's when he knows – that's when he senses the echo of a lost past, a timeline overwritten. That this girl is a time traveller is plain enough from the hue of temporal distortion that surrounds her like a thick fog. But there's more to it than that. In those young eyes he can see impossible things – millennia of destruction and war that she can't possibly have experienced; darkness and death and his own self travelling to unknown places and committing unthinkable acts.

The sight of her makes his head pound behind his eyes and he totters, wishing he had something to hold on to as he hovers in the hallway. He lets his eyelids sink shut and inhales a long breath that still leaves his lungs feeling squeezed and unsatisfied. The girl looks impatient, so he explains himself. "Miss – Pollard, is it?" he asks, extending a hand. "Miss Pollard, I am the Doctor. I'm a future version of the Doctor that you know." He pauses to gauge her reaction and when her eyes darken, he knows he has her. "Because you _do_ know him, don't you, Miss Pollard?" he prompts, raising his eyebrows.

She opens the door further to let him in, but this is the only conciliatory gesture she offers as she folds her arms over her chest and looks at him expectantly.

He steps just inside the doorway and leans a shoulder back against the wall as she clicks the door shut. "Your John Smith is a Time Lord," he continues in his effort to win her trust. "He travels through time and space in a blue box called the TARDIS, and he's an alien with two hearts."

Her eyes widen and she takes a step backwards. "How can you know that?" she finally speaks.

"Because I used to be him," he explains gently. He rubs the back of his neck. "Well, more or less – we hit a little bump in the road; spare hand in a jar, energy pulse from a Dalek weapon, one thing led to another and here I am, but the important thing is, as a Time Lord, he has the ability to regenerate – grow a new body when he dies. I've regenerated twice – well, three times, really, since I was him."

Her eyes are narrowed and she looks at him sideways, like she can't quite decide if he's malicious or merely insane. "If you used to be him," she challenges, "you must remember me. Tell me how we met." She taps her fingers on her forearm.

He runs a hand through his hair and leans back harder against the wall, but when time wobbles, the wall wobbles with him and it only disorients him more. "I'm afraid I can't," he explains, blinking and shaking his head. "It's difficult to explain, but things got a bit muddled during my eighth incarnation and I don't actually remember you."

"And you expect me to trust you?" she demands.

Time pauses and folds back and the girl is swimming before his eyes. "Yes – no," he begs. "Charlotte, I just need to talk to him." He reaches a desperate hand for her, steps towards her but his legs buckle under him, and he reaches back to catch himself against the wall.

She notices. "Are you all right?"

He's hunched over and he feels moisture trickle down his face. "I'm always all right," he winces. "Please – I need to see him."

"Well, like I told you, he's not here. And even if he were..." she trails off and suddenly her eyes are despondent and lost. "He can't help you, Doctor – or whoever you are. He's – not himself right now."

He has a vague sense that he knows why, or he ought to know what she means but it's hard to recall when the room is spinning in front of him and her voice is skipping like that. "Is he ill?" he gasps.

"No," she says and now her tone is urgent and sharp as she adds, "but I believe you are." He feels her arm around him, supporting him as she starts to guide him across the room to the sofa.

He can feel her straining under his weight but he's no longer able to support himself as they limp over and he collapses. "Why – can't – he?" he chokes out, and then he retches, dry and draining.

He feels cold fingers on his forehead. "God, you're burning up!" she exclaims.

Then there's silence and motion as everything plummets out from under him. With time wavering about so much, he's not sure if it's a matter of seconds or hours before she returns, but then she's placing something ice-cold and wet on his forehead. She smoothes it down, wipes at his face and hair as she explains, "The Doctor's changed into a human."

His memory clicks into place; he knew this. He knew this and there was something he needed to do about it – somebody to talk to or some place to go, but it's all hovering in his mind, just on the other side of the haze. Each time he tries to grab for it and clear his head, time folds over and scatters his every thought like a stack of papers blown about in a gust of wind.

He feels the sting working in deeper, twisting his insides apart and draining away his temporal energies. What started as the tiniest of pricks to his skin is now a haemorrhage and very soon there won't be anything left of him.

Reality is swirling round him and slipping away like water down a drain. Her voice is desperate and so very far away as he hears her cry, "...Time Lord?" in what sounds like a sudden realisation. "...thought there were none here...got to tell him..."

Everything goes black.

* * *

Something shifts behind her, something nudges on her leg and her eyes flutter open to the sight of a sunny room and curtains wafting in the breeze by the open windows. She's well rested and John is pressed up behind her, his arm wrapped round her waist holding her securely. She's warm and comfortable, and happier than she can remember being in ages.

She tenses her body, stretching gently and she feels his lips grazing behind her ear. "I'm sorry to wake you," he whispers. "I was enjoying watching you sleep but my body needed to move."

She turns over onto her back, still snuggled closely next to him and the smile spreads on her face as she looks up at him. "S'okay," she says, reaching over to run her fingers through his hair. "This wasn't such a bad way to wake up."

He props himself up on an elbow and leans over to place a soft kiss on her forehead. His hair hangs down, tickling her face as his lips breathe over her nose, brush softly on her mouth. He cups her cheek with his other hand and their lips meet. His touch is tender and slow, and her heart flip-flops in her chest.

"In case I didn't mention it last night," she says, tracing a finger playfully down his face and neck, "I love you."

He crushes his lips on hers, and now she's fully awake, and her heart is pounding all the way down to her toes. She reaches for him, wraps her arms round him as he moves on top of her. His chest presses to her when he breathes, skin against skin, warm and protective and wonderful, as he buries his face in the crevice of her neck, fills it with hair and heated breath as he sighs, "I love you too," into her ear.

He shows her just how much, and she thinks it's about the best way to wake up in the morning that she could imagine.

She emerges from the bathroom clad in a dressing gown, rubbing a towel through her hair. She glances round the room, notices a pair of trousers that she doesn't recognise, and then she does a double take because she has an odd feeling that the curtains didn't used to be quite that shade of blue.

Then she sees John and all stray thoughts fall by the wayside. He's sitting on the corner of the bed, fingering his mobile from hand to hand and staring at the floor. She comes over to stand in front of him and he looks up at her, his face creased with worry.

"What is it?" she asks.

He reaches up to grasp her arm, gives it a tug and she sits down next to him, leaning up close, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. "She won't say," he shakes his head. "Charley – she needs me to come home and she won't say why."

She props her chin on his shoulder and twirls his hair between her fingers. "She won't tell you anything?"

He turns to her and kisses her brow. "She says she's fine but she insists there's an emergency." His hand finds the back of her head and holds her to him, fingers threaded through her wet hair.

She glances over at her mobile on the table, powered off and untouched and wonders how many emergencies await her at home. Her eyes fall closed as she kisses his shoulder and then he tugs at her chin, lifts her face to his with a kiss that's soft and breathless and smells of toothpaste. Their mouths slide open and then pause as they breathe into each other, lingering, unwilling to let the moment pass.

Finally she pulls away, edging back just enough so she can speak. "I guess we're going home then," she whispers.

He strokes her cheek, gives a tiny smile and she knows he's noted her choice of pronoun. "You're coming?"

She smiles and nods. "Got a few things to deal with myself."

It's time.

Together they pack up and get ready for the trip home.

_tbc_


	21. Chapter 21: Truth and Trepidation

Chapter 21: Truth and Trepidation

* * *

She gets in the car, she takes a deep breath and then she's ready.

John is driving separately since they both have their cars here, so they've said their goodbyes, made their promises to phone each other as soon as matters are dealt with, and now she's thinking about what sort of takeaway she wants to share with him for supper later, because certainly everything will be cleared up by then.

His cousin is fine – she's already said so – and the Doctor – well, he can say what he wants, but John is human, plain and simple.

She knows it can't be easy for him, especially if the likeness really is that close, and the irony of it all isn't lost on her. That he should bear such a resemblance to the Time Lord – John, this human man who's shown her the path back to her own humanity – well, she can only imagine how it must look to the Doctor.

It's just one more regret to add to the list, because her every thought of him is tinged with regret. Their failure to make a life together will always be the greatest failure of her life, and that's not something that she'll ever forget about. Their lives will always be linked; she'll always be there for him, looking out for him as best she can.

She should probably explain that to John, come to think of it, because he only has a cursory understanding of the nature of her ties to him.

She steers the car out to the motorway and resolves to have a chat with him when she sees him later.

* * *

She passes the time flipping stations on the radio. There's a news story that catches her attention about this year's cabbage crop; it seems that the vegetables are spoiling almost immediately upon harvesting and the cause is a mystery to all involved scientists and she wonders if it might be a matter for Torchwood's attention.

She switches stations and listens to music for the remainder of the drive. When she's about fifteen minutes from home, she's listening to the Police and she's musing over how different they sound in this universe without Andy Summers on guitar. That's when her mobile rings. She switches off the music, glances at the caller ID and she smiles, because it looks like she'll be seeing John sooner than expected.

"Do you feel like Indian or pizza?" she asks playfully into the phone.

"Rose," the urgency of his reply shakes through her like an earthquake and rattles away all her cheerfulness. "Rose, you need to come over here straightaway." There's tension in his voice mixed with confusion and a trace of anger as well, and she doesn't think it's targeted at her, but she's not sure.

"What is it?" She grips the steering wheel and moves into the slow lane.

"It's _him_ – your Doctor. He's here."

The Doctor's words are in her mind again, "_Rose, he is me..._" and she sighs with impatience and rolls her eyes because she should've anticipated this; he wouldn't have been able to resist investigating. "Put him on the phone," she says.

It's time to end this.

"I can't," John says darkly. "Rose, he's ill."

She blinks and shakes her head. "What?"

"He's unconscious," John elaborates, "and Charley insists we can't call an ambulance – some cockamamie story about aliens – something about a fob watch..." His voice is tight, his syllables stiff with indignation and though the sentence is left incomplete it's a hard edge that teeters on a cliff, rather than fading away quietly. She wonders what the rest of the 'cockamamie story' is, because now that this is finally sinking in, she's getting the distinct impression that there's a lot more going on than she realises.

Stupid, _stupid_ ape.

Her reflexes kick into gear before she allows herself any more self-pity. The Doctor is ill and he needs help. "No," she agrees with Charley. "Not an ambulance – they wouldn't know what to do with him. You need to take him to Torchwood. Can you get him in the car?"

"Yes, Charley and I should be able to manage him."

"OK," she instructs. "I'll call Dr. Marwood to meet you there. I'll be there as soon as I can."

She gives him the address, hangs up the phone and says goodbye to all her plans.

* * *

By the time she arrives, they've got him on a gurney and they're wheeling him into one of the Torchwood treatment rooms. Dr. Marwood is there, examining him and barking out questions Charley is answering using words like 'chronotomic' and 'temporal deficit' and everything is white, smells of antiseptic and human frailty and none of it makes any sense.

John is there and she goes to him, takes his hand and they stand side by side in uncomprehending silence as the two women work away. She feels tears burn in her eyes as she watches the Doctor, pale, unconscious and helpless.

She thinks back to how he looked when he came to see her – both times, recently – and now she sees it; she sees that he hasn't been well for some time now. She should've seen it then, only she'd been too wrapped up in her own life and in her denial of him – because despite all her claims of not knowing him, he's still the Doctor. Or at least he's a pale shadow of him, but either way, she'd always thought of him as being invincible.

To see him like this is horrible. He could die. Just like a human.

She turns to John and buries her face in his shoulder. "What happened?" she asks. "What did Charley say?"

His arm tightens around her. "Charley said a lot of things," he replies, tense jaw and narrowed eyes, and now she knows the source of his ire earlier, even if she doesn't understand it.

He's about to continue, but then Charley lets out a gasp from across the room that's emphatic enough to cut off all conversation. "That's it!" she cries. "I think know what to do!" She turns and runs, heading top-speed for the door.

"Wait!" Rose cries after her, turning to follow with John's hand still in hers as she tugs him along.

Together they chase the girl down the stairs and out the door to the city streets. "Charley!" John calls after her. They look to the left and the right until finally they catch a glimpse of her as she disappears round a corner several blocks down.

So they run. They dash after Charley as she leads them down this block, around that corner, across a street, all the while ignoring their cries of her name. Rose's breath is getting short, she feels sweat forming on her brow and a glance over at John shows that he's straining as well.

Then they round another corner and she sees it, and the shock slices into her, cuts open her soul and takes away what breath she has left.

Because it's there.

The blue box.

It's right there in front of her and it's impossible – it _ought_ to be impossible because the Doctor – the _real_ Doctor – left them at Bad Wolf Bay. He left them, he left _her_ and he's gone, and she's never supposed to see him or the TARDIS ever again, but there it is, right there on the street corner, and the sight cuts into her already-straining lungs as she hunches over, gasping for air between suffocating sobs.

She turns her head away from the impossibility and tries to breathe, and that's when she sees John's face.

He's looking at the TARDIS with wide eyes, an open mouth and confused lines across his face. He looks at it like he knows it. He looks at it like it ought to be impossible. "The blue box," he breathes. "It's real."

She grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him like she's trying to shake the delusion from him. "No," she begs, pleading with him as she feels the tears streaming down her face. "You don't know it. You _can't_ know it." He's not part of all this. He's human; he's just a normal human man.

He flinches and she realises she's digging her fingernails into his shoulder. "It's in my dreams," he says softly, his words heavier than the breath they're spoken with. "Nearly every night – the blue box, carrying me to strange, amazing places." He squeezes his eyes closed like he's searching his memory, before opening them to focus on her. "How can it be real?"

She moves her hands to clutch at his sweaty face as she searches him, imploring him with her eyes_. Some sort of psychic link_, she speculates, tries to explain away.

But the TARDIS is there and it can't be explained away.

The door opens and Charley emerges, holding something in her hand as she breaks into a run back towards Torchwood. "What are you doing?" Rose calls after her, her voice high and quivering and bordering on hysteria.

"I'm trying to save him!" Charley calls back just as she rounds the corner.

Rose turns back to John, her fingers still on his skin, his fast breaths still breezing on her face. She looks at him and he's a complete stranger; he's something she'd treasured, now proven to be counterfeit.

She doesn't know him.

She jerks her hands away, pulls her body away from him, throws him a look of horror and then she turns back and runs after the girl, and this time she welcomes the pounding of her feet on the pavement, the sharp breaths and the stitch in her side because it drowns out the agony in her heart.

* * *

The time that follows is a blur of anguish, confusion and anxiety.

She's back at Torchwood, there's the blinding bright light of the corridors, there's a closed door and there are voices from within that she strains to hear but even when she can make out the words, the meaning fails to reach her.

There are footsteps that she thinks might be her own; slow, dragging footsteps that swish back and forth in a rhythmic tempo as she paces, a series of physical jolts stirring up the emotional turmoil within her.

There's breathing behind her that she knows is John's and then his touch is faltering on her shoulder and she reacts on instinct, pushing him away with a flailing arm as if he's diseased.

He stays away after that and she doesn't look at him, but every so often she hears a sharp intake of breath like he's about to speak. Her shoulders tense up, her head turns away as far as possible from him, and he stops before saying anything.

Whoever the _hell_ he is.

She pushes away all thoughts and focuses everything she has on the feel of each footstep, the sound of her heels hitting the floor, the sight of her shoes as they bend and straighten with each step, one, then the other, then back again. The visceral repetition is her limit right now. It keeps the tears at bay. It keeps her from going mad.

Finally there's the creak of a door opening and then Charley's face is in front of her, wide eyes and a worried shrug to her shoulders. "I think we've stopped the haemorrhaging," she says. "Now we just have to wait." She seems to be having trouble looking Rose in the eye.

She hears movement behind her and she sucks in a breath, pulls away from his presence even before John has a chance to touch her. "What did you do for him?" she chokes out.

"The device," Charley replies. "It's a chrono- chronotomic-something," she sputters. "I don't remember what he called it, but it's supposed to stimulate his body's production of neuro-temporal perceptive fluid."

Rose squeezes her eyes shut, rubs her forehead and tries again, reaching for something – anything – that she can wrap her mind around right now. "But how – how did you know what to do?"

Charley sighs. "I've seen it before: Acute Chrono-somatic Conductive Deficiency in a Time Lord," the girl explains slowly, and now she's fixing Rose's gaze with sympathy and it's the last thing Rose wants right now from this girl. "Not this severe, of course," Charley adds, "but I took a guess that the same remedy would apply." She nods behind her in John's direction.

_Time Lord._

And that's when she finally sees it; when she recognises this girl for who she is. Because nothing about her has ever really added up. She never quite fit, in the way the tiniest detail would set off her inexplicable emotional triggers, while these shattering events around them now seem positively commonplace.

It's not because _she's_ off, it's because the whole world around her is.

Rose ducks her head and looks at her sideways. She swallows hard. "You're not his cousin, are you?"

Charley presses her lips together and shakes her head.

"Charley!" John's voice speaks up suddenly from behind with an admonishment that makes Rose shudder at the closeness of him. "What is this insanity?" he demands. "Of course you're my cousin. You're Charlotte Pollard, daughter of Richard and Louisa Pollard, who was my father's sister."

Charley ignores his outburst. "I'm from 1930," she continues, speaking to Rose with infuriating patience. "I met the Doctor aboard the airship R101 and he saved me when it crashed. I've been travelling with him ever since." Her eyes move back over Rose's shoulder and in spite of herself, Rose looks back at John, who can't seem to stop shaking his head.

Finally he spins on his heels and turns away in exasperation.

"You _saw_ it," Charley insists to him. "You saw the TARDIS. I know you recognised it."

"Just because some figment of my subconscious is somehow…" he starts to spit out a response.

But Rose cuts him off. "But he's human," she insists to Charley. "He _is_. And look at him – he doesn't understand anything you're saying."

"He _is_ human," Charley agrees. "He changed himself into a human. The Doctor – he has a device that can rewrite biology." She looks up at the ceiling and draws in a long breath. "There was this creature, sort of like a Gallifreyan mosquito only it bites Time Lords and creates these Time anomalies. Tiny, localised and entirely harmless, except this one wasn't. It kept growing and feeding off him and there was no way to make it stop. He said it would've killed every Time Lord on Gallifrey if he didn't do something. So we drew it away – here – and he changed into a human to starve it out." There are tears of regret in her eyes as she fills in the final piece of the puzzle. "There weren't supposed to be any Time Lords in this universe."

Rose's eyes fall closed. "But there was one," she supplies flatly. "Or half of one, anyway."

"We had no idea..." Charley begs in apology.

"All this time," Rose unleashes the accusation. "You _knew_ all this time. The Doctor could die, and you just watched me – with him – and you didn't say _anything_."

"I did!" Charley insists vehemently. "I tried to warn you, but if I'd told you the whole truth you wouldn't have listened. You thought I was crazy enough as it was." Her shoulders sag as she looks away. "I had no way of knowing that you knew the Doctor too."

"You should've said," Rose moans as the truth of it all sinks in and spreads through her like a poison. "Oh, god. Oh, my god, it was just him all over again." She leans back on the wall and sinks down, her head in her hands. "Oh, god," she sobs over and over, rocking her body back and forth. "All this time, it was just him again. It was him. It was always him."

_tbc_


	22. Chapter 22: Revelations and Ruptures

Chapter 22: Revelations and Ruptures

* * *

It's always the waiting that kills her.

She's still curled up in a ball of anguish as she waits helplessly to find out if the Doctor is going to live or die. At some point Charley's and John's voices have moved away and they've struck up a hushed debate that gradually increases in volume. She does everything in her power not to listen to Charley's forceful pleas and to John's desperate, pointless protestations until finally the sound dies away. Presumably they've taken their discussion elsewhere.

It feels like hours later when Dr. Marwood emerges from the treatment room. She removes her gloves and rifles a hand through her hair as she comes over to face Rose. "He's responding to the treatment," she announces.

Rose gets to her feet, her heart pounding. "Is he going to be all right?"

Dr. Marwood nods. "For now, yes, I believe he'll pull through," she replies. "I still don't fully understand the device that Charley provided, but from what I can tell, he was haemorrhaging at such a rate, it's hard to believe he lasted this long. But he's unique after all; I can only assume it's his human half that saved him. The device is stimulating his body's production of neuro-temporal perceptive fluid to replace what the creature has drained from him. And it appears to be working."

Rose gives a sigh and lets her eyes fall closed as she chokes back a sob of relief.

"But," adds Dr. Marwood, "It's not a permanent fix. He's been temporarily refuelled, so to speak, but so long as this creature continues growing and feeding on him, he's going to continue to get weaker and eventually, he _will_ die."

Rose's insides squeeze back into a ball of panic, but before she can question the other woman further, there's a click from across the hallway, a door opens and his familiar voice is speaking up. "Oh, but that's hardly our biggest concern right now, is it?"

They all turn, and he's there, leaning casually against the door jamb in Converse and pinstripes, hands in his pockets and a grin on his face as if there weren't a thing wrong with him.

"Doctor," she breathes. "What are you..."

"Jon," he corrects her.

But she's not ready to deal with two of them, even if he is spelling it differently, so she closes her eyes and clenches her fists and gives a frustrated sigh. "_Doctor_, can you please..."

He spins on his heel and strides back into the room. "Rose, may I have a word with you in private?" he says over his shoulder.

She follows.

She steps into the room, closes the door behind her and turns to him. He's there in front of her, tall and lanky and brown as he catches her wrists, one still encased in a plaster cast, and he holds them up. "Rose, I'm so sorry," he says and the real regret in his voice deals another blow to her battered heart.

"What for?" she asks with a weak laugh. Because there's just too much for them both to be sorry about.

"The baby," he says. His hands tighten around her bare wrist and she can feel her pulse throb into him. She looks away.

She can't look at him directly, because this is the one thing that she hasn't been thinking about, hasn't been dealing with. The grief is still there, raw and smarting as he touches it just below the surface and she can't – she _won't_ break down with him here, so she swallows hard and forces a smile. "S'okay," she says. "You and me as parents? It was a pretty scary idea anyway."

"Don't," he says. There's an edge in his voice that she doesn't recognise, so she looks up at him in surprise and finds his eyes on her, brown and so intent. "Don't make light," he insists, his voice hollow.

She shrugs. "Nothing to do about it. It wasn't your fault."

He winces, releasing her wrists to fold his arms over his stomach. "Time anomaly," he explains with a wave of his hand, brushing it off like it's nothing. He rubs the side of his neck vigorously, draws in a slow breath and pushes his hands into his pockets. "Actually," he continues, "it _was_ my fault."

The words hover in the air between them, and it's ridiculous, it's impossible, but there's regret and vulnerability in his face – he really believes this. "What are you talking about?" she asks.

"The creature," he explains, and they're taking turns avoiding eye contact with each other. "It's some sort of mutation of a Gallifreyan insect – normally quite harmless, but something obviously went awry with this one. It's been following me for months, causing anomalies in Time, affecting me," he turns back and fixes her gaze, "and everyone around me."

She gasps as she makes the connection. "Dr. Marwood – she said – she asked if I'd been time travelling when it happened. I didn't know what she meant, but – oh, god, it happened right after you came to see me."

He nods. "I had no idea what it was. Oh, Rose, if I'd known, I never would've..." His voice breaks and when he meets her gaze again his eyes are moist.

It's so hard to look at him like this; almost as bad as when he was unconscious on that gurney. He's still pale and shaky and raw and taking this to heart to a degree that's excessive for him. She's so used to seeing him always in action, and now he's standing still, ravaged by the consequences of his own deeds.

She needs it to end, so she reaches out, grasps the flaps of his open suit jacket in a gesture that doesn't quite amount to physical contact. "It wasn't your fault," she assures him, giving a tug to the fabric. "It was an accident."

He nods, but there's disbelief in his eyes. "You know, I never really thought about it – being a father. A human dad." His eyes cloud over as he shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. "Not even when it was real. I was too wrapped up in..." He trails off, looking up at the ceiling. "I'm so sorry, Rose. For so much."

"Not like I was ready to be a mum," she replies, changing the subject, or at least turning it slightly askew. She looks down and bites her lip and when his fingers brush over her cheek she startles in surprise.

"You would've been a beautiful mother," he says, his voice hushed as he tucks her hair behind her ear.

She twists out from under his touch and pretends not to see the wounded look on his face. "Never gonna know now," she says, self pity spoken in a flat voice, because now she knows who he is, and she knows who _he_ is, and she's lost one and the other was never hers to begin with.

He always knows what she's thinking even if he sometimes pretends not to. But this time, all pretence is gone; there's only the reality of now between them and it's overwhelming enough, in the breath she takes and in the air around them that's crushing her down, has always been crushing her down since the day he came home with her. The reality that's holding them at a distance, but still inexorably tying them together, like two planets in orbit round each other – linked but never to touch. That must be why she can't seem to look at him; why his touch is so oppressive. If she gets too close, the gravity will crush her.

His question only adds to the weight. "Do you love him?"

She shakes her head, not in response, but in denial of the very question. "Doesn't matter," she says, blinking away tears as she looks around the room at everything but him. "He's you."

She feels his fingers touch her cheek and this time she lets him, as he cups her chin and lifts her face to look at him directly. "He's John Smith," he assures her with raised eyebrows and wide open eyes, wistfulness and a finality that surprises her because she thought all this was long past them.

He turns his face up to the ceiling, releases his hold on her and starts prattling on in his familiar way again, as she picks at the frayed edges of her cast and tries to keep up with his random line of reasoning. "...easily dealt with now that I know what it is, finally," he's saying. "The Time anomalies are increasing – I know you're not capable of perceiving them but this is the third time we're actually having this conversation, and in between there's been a mariachi band through here playing a march – rather alarmingly fast, I might add – and it's getting a bit disorienting, to say the least." He claps his hands and rubs them together. "But no matter – I have a plan and good thing, too because the effects are starting to be apparent to the greater population. The devastation to the cabbage crop is just the beginning; I'm afraid there may be some widespread agricultural calamities this year, and you've already seen some of the medical issues that can occur." He's bouncing on his toes and running a hand through his hair as he turns to her. "I have a plan," he repeats. "I just need to borrow his TARDIS and pop off for a bit."

She frowns. "What are you gonna do?"

He sighs impatiently. "Rose, every moment we delay, the creature is growing. I'll be fine, I'm just going to lure it into the next universe and leave it there. I'll be back in time for tea."

"The next universe?"

"No Time Lords to feed on there. Remember, my people are still alive for him," he reminds her. "His TARDIS is still powered by the Eye of Harmony. It can travel between dimensions without tearing down the walls." He starts for the door.

"I'm going with you," she announces, moving to follow.

He halts and spins round, holding up his hand to stop her. "No," he says firmly. "Me flying his TARDIS is enough of a paradox – we don't want to make it worse with you there." And with that he turns and yanks the door open and then he's off. "Back in time for tea!" his voice echoes from down the corridor.

* * *

She emerges into the hallway where the bright fluorescent lights pound on her eyes like the harsh sun waking her up before she's ready. Charley is nowhere to be seen, but John is back, sitting on the floor with his legs outstretched as he leans his head back against the wall, his eyes closed. He doesn't look up at her approach and she studies him with a sort of morbid fascination as he sits there, still and calm and human.

He looks so small.

_Bigger on the inside_, she reminds herself, and against her will, her mind turns to their night together. It was just last night, and it may as well have been a lifetime ago, when his touch had delighted over every inch of her; when his lips had tasted her skin, when she'd opened her heart and her body to let him in.

He shifts, turns to look at her and she moves her weight to the other foot and finds that she can't look away.

_Who is he?_

Then her feet are finding their way over to him, and he gets to his, reaches for her and she reaches back and buries herself in him. Hiding her face in the tangled curtain of his hair, she holds him, one hand on each shoulder as she grasps fistfuls of his shirt. "Are you all right?" he murmurs, stroking her head, laying kisses through her hair and he's just the same, he feels the same, he sounds the same as his human self always has been.

But there's more to him than that; she knows it now. There's something inside him, hidden deep down like a second heart that's been silenced, but now that she's listening for it, she can hear it.

She's always heard it.

"No," she answers his question truthfully, because he's the one she's always been able to be honest with. "I'm not all right," she speaks into his shoulder, the fabric absorbing the heat of her breath and radiating it back at her.

He sighs and his chest presses on her, moving her face upwards as his hands complete the motion, pushing her away just enough to look at her directly; to hold her desperate gaze in reassuring blue. "It's all right," he says, completely unaware of the scope of the lie he's telling. "Rose, I don't know what this is all about, but it's preposterous. I'm John Smith, that's all I am. Please tell me you believe that."

She bites her lip and doesn't reply.

"Rose," he says again and his voice wavers as his hands grasp her hair tightly and shake her head a little. "Tell me you believe me. _Please_. I need you to believe in me."

She turns her head and looks at his shoulder. "You saw the TARDIS," she whispers the reluctant truth to him. "You _knew_ it. The Doctor knows you. And Charley..."

"Charley is completely…" he snaps at her; starts to snap before he breaks off and starts again. "She's trying to…" he stammers. "I can't believe this," he breaks off finally. "You think my whole life is a lie?" He releases hold on her and turns away.

And that's what breaks her, his pulling away in defeat, because he's here and he's real, his rich voice and soft lips, his irrepressible humanity wrapped up in this compact human frame. There's a Time Lord deep within him, there's the voice of the infinite, but there's also a single human heart, human flesh and a human soul that's hers, and it's more real to her than a hundred TARDISes or a thousand alien planets.

So she kisses him.

She reaches for him, takes him by the shoulder and pulls, spinning him round so that he stumbles into her. There's a jumble of bumped lips and fumbling hands until he finds his footing and then the kiss is hard and desperate, a breathless denial of reality, an affirmation of the only truth she cares to acknowledge. "No," she gasps, breathing out the air from his mouth, eyes closed to better savour the taste of him. "You're real." His fingers drag down her face with just the slightest hint of fingernails and she opens her eyes into his flushed face and lips. "You and me," she whispers. "It's real. I needed you before I even met you; you're the realest thing I know."

He shakes his head. "But you're telling me that I'm just a made-up person?" he demands, his brow furrowed in disbelief and desperation. "That I didn't exist four months ago? A year ago? I tell you I did; I have the memories and they're no less real to me than you are."

She brushes lips over his cheek, breathes into his ear. "Doesn't matter," she says, rejecting reality and choosing to hold onto fantasy. "I told you I don't care where you came from and I meant it." She did; now she knows it for certain.

But her reassurance has the opposite effect on him as he stares at her with stricken eyes that pierce straight into her. His hands loosen their grip on her shoulders and he slides back from her embrace, aghast and wounded at the truth that she's acknowledged and accepted; the truth that he's only now beginning to believe. She sees it; she knows the very moment when reality permeates through him and deflates his fabricated soul.

She knows what's coming next, and she's not ready, so she pulls him back to her, clutching at his shoulders with white knuckles as she cuts him off before he even has a chance to ask the question. "Don't," she implores him. "Please. I can't..."

"Rose," he breathes and then his arms are around her waist, holding her to him as his breath whispers over her skin, his mouth finds hers and opens to her as his single heartbeat thumps against her chest.

* * *

Eventually, it's the sound of footsteps that pulls them apart.

They turn to look at where Charley has emerged and she falters under their gaze, as if she's afraid to come too close. Rose takes a step back, putting some distance between her and John and the motion seems to put the other girl at ease. She steps nearer to face them and her carefully constructed inexpressive mask relaxes just a little.

And in that one small motion, everything about this girl comes clear to Rose. Charley has been guarded, territorial and suspicious from the moment they met, and somewhere amongst the turmoil of emotions in her heart, a thread weaves together for Rose. It all makes sense now, and in spite of herself, she finds a grudging respect for this other girl. Given the same situation, she's not sure she could've stood by quietly and watched her Doctor fall in love with another woman.

Charley's hands fumble at something in her pocket. "I'm sorry," she says in the detached, professional manner of a doctor delivering a fatal diagnosis. She holds out her hand and Rose sees she's holding a fob watch. "I really am, but I need you to convince him. The creature is going to wreak havoc on the entire Web of Time if we don't do something." All pretence dissolves away and now she's pleading with Rose as her hand clenches the watch and waves it towards her. "We _need_ the Doctor back. I _know_ you know it."

John starts to bite back a reply, but Rose silences him by taking him by the arm and giving it a squeeze. She shakes her head vehemently at the younger girl. "No," she corrects her. "It's all right. The Doctor – the other Doctor – _my_ version," she says for lack of a better description, "he said he had a plan. He's dealing with it."

Charley takes a step back and a deep frown spreads over her face. "What plan?"

"He said..." Rose stammers out, trying to recall just _what_ he'd said, suddenly realising just how little he'd told her. "He said he was going to borrow the TARDIS and draw the creature into the next universe."

The crease between the other girl's eyes deepens. "And then what?" she asks and the rising alarm in her is making Rose's stomach turn over in dread. "He can't just drop it off and come back. So long as he's alive, so long as he's a Time Lord, that creature will _never_ let him go. Why do you think he turned human in the first place?" She nods towards John, who has a storm raging visibly behind his eyes, but he remains silent.

A pit opens up inside Rose the size of the Void itself as she remembers the Doctor's flat refusal to bring her along.

Because it didn't add up then, and she'd chosen to ignore it.

"Oh my god," she says, her heart thumping in a fresh round of panic. "He's going to use that device – he's going to turn human."

"But isn't he already half human?" Charley asks.

"Yes!" Rose cries. "How does it work?"

"I don't know!" Charley replies, flailing her hands about helplessly. "It's Time Lord technology. It rewrites the biology of a Time Lord. I couldn't begin to understand it."

"Oh, god," Rose chokes out, burying her face in her hands, because now she understands that look he'd given her just before he left. That wasn't anything so simplistic as jealousy or closure to their miserable attempt at a relationship.

He lied to her. He knew he wasn't coming back.

"It's going to kill him," she gasps. "We've got to stop him."

_tbc_


	23. Chapter 23: Separations and Slippages

Chapter 23: Separations and Slippages

* * *

She turns and she runs.

It's the only thing she can do.

She races down the hallway, her feet pounding almost as fast as her heart, and her only thought is that she has to catch up with the Doctor; she has to stop him before he's gone for good.

John's voice is behind her, calling to her to wait, and Charley is insisting that there's no point in going after him; he's long gone. It's already too late to catch up with him.

Each footfall lands maddeningly slowly, bringing her closer and closer to the same conclusion.

She reaches the door, grasps the handle and leans her head against it as her shoulders shudder with sobs, her chest heaves with anguish. She startles at the touch of a hand on her shoulder, turns, and then she's burying herself in John's embrace and soaking his shirt with her tears.

He holds her and whispers soft reassurances that he knows nothing about.

She looks up to see Charley twitching with impatience, hovering like a nervous parent. She opens her mouth to speak and closes it again; looks away, and Rose can see that she's still grasping the fob watch in her hand as she speaks quietly, insistently, "We need the Doctor back."

John draws back, seems to shrink in Rose's embrace. "And I'm just nothing?" he charges at Charley. "I'm just a placeholder? Something to keep the body warm whilst the mind sits on ice? I'm just useless, then, is that right?"

"No," Rose breathes into his ear, her hands wrapped round his neck as she holds onto him tightly. "You're the furthest thing from useless."

"You're no more useless than any of us," Charley replies, irritated and impatient. "Look, I know how you must feel, but it was always going to end. A few months – that's what he said – and then the creature would've been gone and we would be on our way." She gesticulates, pointing her hand at them, tense and insistent. "I'm sorry it's come to this; I really am, but if we don't bring the Doctor back, a man – the other Doctor – he's going to die. We _have_ to bring him back. He'll know what to do." She looks directly at Rose. "And _you_ know it."

Rose clutches handfuls of John's shirt, hides her face in his shoulder as the horrifying truth comes into sharp focus – she's going to lose one of them. One of them has to die in order for the other to live, and it's a choice that she can't possibly make. She's already lost him more times than she ever thought she could live through, and she'd thought she'd moved on; she thought she'd found peace without him, and now here she is, right back in the thick of it.

She grasps at his shoulders and she sobs into him and for the first time since she met him in that London basement all those years ago, it's _her_ that's standing still while the universe moves around her, and she's frozen, unable to make any move at all.

"Rose," he breathes, a deep intake of air and then a sigh as he reaches up to take her hands, removes them from his shoulders and pushes her away in order to look at her directly. "Rose, come on." He takes her by the hand and leads her stiff, numb form away, up and back into the depths of the building.

She stumbles after him, senseless and overwrought and barely aware at all of her surroundings; a blur of white in motion. His hand is warm and firm in hers as he tugs her along and then there's the click of a door and his arms are drawing her in, circling her waist to mingle their human hearts together. He kisses her, fierce and wide, his tongue seeking out hers to slide against, to circle and taste. He clutches at her face, drags fingers through her hair and it's overwhelming, the power in his touch. He tastes her like she's something treasured. He kisses her like it's the first time, or possibly the last.

Their lips separate and his eyes are still closed as he presses his brow to hers. His fingertips stroke down her face, suddenly gentle as he whispers into her mouth, "I have to go now." He reaches down, seems to be rummaging in his pocket between soft, desperate kisses until he pulls back, lifts his hand to show her the fob watch resting in his palm.

"No," she begs. "There's got to be another way." Her mind races, grasping for anything that might give a clue. "We can find some way to track him – we can get him back. We can..."

He kisses her, silencing the flood of nonsensical, hopeless pleas that are raging through her brain and out her mouth. He presses lips to hers and holds them there securely as if plugging a leak. When she feels him breathe in sharply, she opens her eyes to see tears in his.

He strokes a hand down her cheek, cups her chin in the same way the Doctor had done when he'd meant to leave her forever. "Rose, I have to. I was never meant to exist in the first place. And I'm living at the expense of someone who was."

She shakes her head. "We'll find another way," she insists, thumping him on the chest in frustration. "I don't want to lose you," she implores, sucking in and clenching her throat tight as she presses her eyes closed, holding in the tears.

"Are you willing to sacrifice him for me?" he asks, and her eyes fly open into his at the impossible question. She looks away. "Because I can't do that," he continues, not waiting for the answer she can't give. "I could never live with myself. Rose, it doesn't take a Time Lord to see that I can't stay. If I don't change back; if the Doctor doesn't return, he won't go on to become him." He ducks his head and brushes lips on her cheek. "And to meet you," he whispers into her ear.

All she can do is shake her head in denial, refusing to accept the horrible reality they're facing and the choice that he's making; the choice she could never make herself. He looks up with a sigh and his hands fall to her shoulders and come to rest there. "He still loves you, you know."

She sniffles and wipes at her eyes. "I know," she says; the words spoken before the thought is even complete in her mind, and she's surprised at her own certainty.

He sucks in a breath and she feels him tense up against her. "Rose, it's time," he insists. "I have to go and I don't want you to watch. _Please_." His voice breaks on the last word as he pushes her away with a gentle shove. She steps backwards to catch herself, but then his hand is sliding down her arm, he's grasping her by the wrist as he swings her back towards himself and wraps himself round her.

"I love you," he says roughly, and she feels it as much as hears it; feel is on the skin of her neck where her pulse is pounding into him. His body is rigid and she knows he's said it against his better judgement because he's trying not to make this worse for her. For either of them.

Their lips brush softly against each other once, and then again for the last time. Her hands slide down his neck, till one is poised on his shoulder, the other she lifts to brush fingertips over his mouth, across his cheek and impossibly, she's reminded of how he didn't shave this morning.

"I love you too," she chokes out and then she turns and flees.

* * *

She hovers outside in the wretched corridor continually stepping further away from the room he's in; further away and back again.

She wonders if he'll cry out as he changes back; can't decide if she wants to hear it if he does.

She wonders if it's a slow process – will he transform gradually, with their consciousnesses intermingling as the Time Lord gradually reclaims his body? Or is it a sudden switch, with the human mind and soul vanishing into nothingness, overwritten and erased like an old computer file being purged?

She wonders if he'll remember.

And this, of all times, is the one time she can't cry.

She wonders just how much she can take before she breaks.

* * *

It's a matter of five minutes or so before he emerges from the room and everything is moving too fast for her. She's barely processed the fact that he's gone, so when she sees him coming towards her, it's startling beyond all reason; it's hope and despair and confusion rattling through her like a spring rain turned into a hurricane in a matter of moments.

The first word he speaks tells her for sure that he's gone. It's another woman's name, but it's not the word that gives him away, it's the timbre of otherworldliness; it's the familiarity and trust that's not remotely familial, invested in the two syllables that tells her for sure.

"Charley!" he calls as he races past Rose in search of the other girl. "Charley, where's my sonic screwdriver?"

"Doctor?" comes her joyful cry from down the hallway. "Doctor!" The sound of her racing footsteps approaches as he starts towards her to meet her.

But then he pauses, pivots on his toes to look at Rose. He frowns ever so slightly, his eyes are soft with what she imagines is a sort of apology as he takes stock of her like she's a curiosity.

She recoils.

She looks away and presses herself back against the wall as Charley approaches, holding out the sonic to him. Rose swallows hard and forces the desperation out of her voice. "Can you save him?" she asks, her gaze flitting towards him and away again as if she's dipping a toe into cold water; as if trying to acclimate herself to him.

"I should be able to bring him back here without a problem." he says, eyes fixed on the sonic as he gives it a twist and holds it up. "After that, we'll have to see what we can do to deal with this creature." He presses a button, the sonic gives off a whir, and a moment later the familiar whooshing sounds.

The TARDIS materialises in front of them.

Immediately the door opens from the inside, and his haggard face appears. His brow is furrowed in half-mad, breathless desperation as he edges into the doorway and leans on the door jamb. His hair is even wilder than usual, his clothes are rumpled and his tie hangs loose round his neck. "Why did you bring me back?" he demands. "You have to let me go, this creature is going to tear down the entire Web of Time in this universe!"

His gaze catches on the shorter man and his eyes widen as something clicks into place. "It's you," he says. "You're back." He throws a furtive glance over at Rose.

"There's no time to explain," the younger Doctor says. "I believe I know a way to stop the creature but it will require both of us, and it won't work if it's allowed to get much stronger than it already is."

* * *

He watches her, can't help watching her as his younger self explains the plan. He only half-listens; that's about his limit right now, but he knows it's a good plan – something involving mingling their temporal signatures to create a sort of poison for the creature.

Poison, because the two of them in the same place at the same time – that's a paradox.

But it's not quite that simple, because he isn't exactly _the_ Doctor and he's only half-Time Lord so it's going to require some extra time and a little manual intervention. But his younger self understands what needs to be done, and it's just as well because he doesn't think he could reason it through himself just now.

Right now he's just trying to grapple with the fact that he's here, he's back and he's alive. It's burning inside him to ask how and why – who figured out what he'd planned to do? Who convinced John Smith to yield himself? He wants to ask Rose, but he can't, because she's slumped again the wall, her face ashen and tear-streaked and it's his fault. Again.

Finally the other man straps a device on both their arms and excuses them as they step into the TARDIS to fly out into the Vortex. The door shuts behind them; he watches his other self go to work the console, flipping through the old-style controls; all the manual switches and knobs. The TARDIS roars to life, carrying them away and drawing the creature along with them.

He feels better almost immediately; just being away from the planet's temporal gravities is a relief. He shoves his hands in his pockets and strolls round the console, a passenger in his own TARDIS just like he's a human in his own body.

It's less odd than he would've expected.

The other man turns away from the console with a sigh. "Now we wait," he explains. "The creature has gained a good amount of strength so it might be a bit before the poison takes effect." He checks the device strapped to his arm – a 'chronometric booster' he'd called it – and settles into a chair with a book in his hands.

And this reminds him of how he'd enjoyed lounging with a book in that incarnation. It's one of the few things he does remember about those years, and it only serves to underscore how everything's changed since then. Sitting in a chair with a book – he'd never be able to keep still like that now.

As if to emphasise the point, he fidgets his way round the room, running his hand over the console and up the Time rotor. He swings himself under and around the steel girders and the metal is cold under his touch.

"How did this happen?" he speaks up suddenly. "Culicidae – they're like mosquitoes for Time Lords – a tiny bite and they're done. They're harmless."

The other man lowers his book and peers over it at him. "This one mutated," he explains simply.

"But – but – that's impossible," he sputters, strolling over to face him. "It would take a billion years of evolution to bring it to this point. It's like a gnat mutating into a hyena in one generation. It doesn't work like that."

The other Doctor sighs. "There was a disturbance in the Web of Time. A slippage of some sort."

He rocks back and forth on his feet. "A slippage? What caused it?"

"I don't know," his younger self replies, inserting a bookmark into _Robinson Crusoe_ and closing the book on his lap. "I was rather busy with trying to prevent the entire Web of Time from collapsing in on itself, after all."

"Right, right," he nods. Pauses. "Well, and then you were busy being human. _Brilliant_ plan, by the way – escape to another universe where there are no Time Lords, draw the creature along with you and then turn human to starve it out." He rubs at the back of his neck and raises his eyebrows. "Might've worked too if it hadn't been for me. Sorry about that, by the way." He pivots on his toes and steps back towards the console.

"You don't remember this," the Doctor says after him.

"No," is all he replies, running a hand over the smooth edge of the console. He knows where this is headed, but there's nothing he could say that could improve his wretched past, and a lot that could make it worse. So he remains silent.

"You don't even remember Charley," the other man presses further.

He turns back, comes to face his other self as he fold his arms over his chest and looms over him with the authority of one who's older and more experienced. "I can't tell you," he answers the unspoken question firmly. "I know why, but I can't tell you."

The other man nods in acknowledgement. He checks the chronometric booster on his arm. "I think it's starting to weaken. How do you feel?"

"Oh, rather like I've had my brain sucked out my ear and put through the spin cycle while being subjected to endless hours of watching reality television." The younger man raises an eyebrow and he waves a hand dismissively. "I'm fine." He sinks down to the floor, sits with his legs outstretched, leaning back on a girder.

The hum of the engine, the almost inaudible whirl of the Vortex outside does strange things to his heartbeat, stirring up memories of places visited, infinite possibilities during all his centuries of travel. It's compelling, but the way it beckons to him is something new and entirely unexpected. It's like a childhood pastime long forgotten, remembered now only to share with a novice; a child or otherwise uninitiated. It's heady and it's intoxicating; it's a life apart – yet it hits him only now that it's a life behind him now.

Because he doesn't need to run any longer.

All those years of running away, running from the Time Lords, the Daleks, Cybermen and countless other monsters – all that running, and it had never occurred to him that there might be something worth running _towards_. He'd stumbled upon it by accident, and a cataclysmic accident it was, considering the events that had led to his existence and current state of affairs.

It's far from perfect, but it's enough.

"You're stranded here, aren't you?" the Doctor surprises him out of his thoughts, sitting forward in his chair and pushing his book aside as he leans his chin on his folded hands. "Really stranded – it's not just because you don't have a TARDIS?"

He shoots him a look of caution and turns away.

"No mind," the younger Doctor concedes. "I only mention it because I could bring you back with me if you like. Rose too. I'll drop you off wherever – whenever you like; you should be able to find the real future me."

He knows what he wants, but he also knows he has no choice in the matter. "Ask her," he says finally, leaning his head back again. "If she goes, I'll go too, but I'm not going without her." He lets his eyes close and it's several moments before he realises the other man hasn't moved. He opens his eyes again to find himself being studied closely. "What?" he asks.

"You would decide your life around a woman who's not even yours?"

"Not my whole life," he replies calmly, shutting his eyes again. "Just which universe I spend it in."

He hears his other self stretch back in his chair again. "That's very human of you."

He doesn't miss the hint of distaste in the other man's voice, but it's meaningless and quickly forgotten. "I suppose it is," he agrees with a wry chuckle.

"You meant to die for her, didn't you?"

The question is equal parts indictment and honest inquiry, and the fact that he's such a mystery to his younger self – that he's _this_ inscrutable only proves himself all the more. It's oddly satisfying. "The entire Web of Time would've imploded if I had stayed," he explains; knows doesn't need to.

"But you didn't have to die," the younger man elaborates, sitting forward again. "You could've brought me back, sent Charley and me on our way, the Culicidae would've followed and this universe would've been none the wiser. But instead you risked yourself."

He shrugs. "She loved him."

The other Doctor lets out a breath slowly, like he's expelling poison. "I know," he says quietly, and then he's silent. The quiet stretches into a long moment of shared regret, until it doesn't. Until the other man sets it aside like yesterday's laundry and turns to him with a tense jaw and a fresh round of reproach. "But nonetheless, you chose to put my entire future – and by default the timeline and your very existence at risk."

"It could've worked," he defends himself weakly. "He could've stayed for years – decades even, and then changed back." He rubs a finger over one eye. "It was a long shot, I know," he concedes.

"A _very_ long shot," the Doctor admonishes him. "And you didn't even consider Charley. She would've been stranded here, on her own."

It's said so sharply, so bitingly that he looks up at the other man in shock. "Is she…?" he sputters, giving his head a flustered shake. He tries again. "You – you and her – are you…"

The sentence is never completed because his younger self reaches over to check the device on his arm. He punches a few buttons and looks up at last, triumphantly. "All signs of life are gone," he announces. "I think we're all finished here."

He gets to his feet, goes to the console and steers the TARDIS back towards Earth.

_tbc_


	24. Chapter 24: Park Benches and Passages

Chapter 24: Park Benches and Passages

* * *

Eventually, she finds she has to move again.

Everyone has been doing the moving for her lately, making the decisions, causing the problems and fixing them, leaving her behind and she's still in the same place, in this Torchwood office building, but her entire life wrapped round it has changed. It's a fierce wind beating her down, and she needs to get away; she needs to separate herself from the epicentre of it all.

So she moves. Some part of her brain running on autopilot sets her legs in motion, and she makes her way numbly down the empty corridor and opens the door into the grey outside world.

The autumn air is startling the way it wakes her up to physical sensation again. It's crisp and it makes her shiver as it fills her lungs and floods her body with its chill. The light in the sky is dull with the vestiges of the setting sun that have seeped through the clouds like dirty water through a sponge.

She turns and proceeds down the street, wandering a bit past the coffee shop, across one street until she finds herself in a small park. It's quiet and empty on this cold day and the vacant space is a relief in a cathartic way because she's got room to breathe, to cry, to rage at the universe.

But before she has a chance to do any of these, she catches sight of another figure sitting across the park on a bench, and she recognises it as Charley.

Her sanctuary invaded, the tears that were already pricking in her eyes now form into pools, and she turns to leave.

But then she notices the way the other girl is sitting there, shivering in the cold with no jacket on, her legs drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped round them tightly. She looks so small and exposed and it's jarring to Rose because she wants to hate this girl for her role in all this – for bringing John here, for bringing the creature that almost killed the Doctor, and then for taking John away again. She wants to hate her, but the way Charley is sitting there, curled up and vulnerable reminds her that she's got far more in common with her than she'd like to admit.

She steers over towards her.

Charley doesn't look up until she's standing over her; until the two of them are close enough to touch, but when she does, there's a sorrow in her eyes that Rose recognises only too well. So she sits down next to her, Charley turns back to rest her chin on her knees and they share the space and the London air between them and around them, with no Time Lords or TARDISes anywhere in sight.

"He doesn't remember me," Charley murmurs after a time. Her jaw planted firmly on her knees forces her head to bob backwards when she speaks. "I thought…" she gulps and squeezes her eyes shut. "I thought I was going to be with him forever and now I find he doesn't even know me in the future."

Rose looks at her; blonde hair wafting in the breeze, cheeks flushed red with the chill and the other girl seems impossibly young. "How old is he?" she asks. "For you, I mean."

Charley pivots on her chin to face her. "He won't say exactly," she replies. "Somewhere past 950 is all he told me. I don't think he even knows."

Rose stifles a gasp and shivers. "_My eighth body, just before the Time War_…" – that's what he'd told her, and naturally she'd assumed that that version of him was much younger than her Doctor, so the revelation that he's _older_ – that so much of his life had been lost in the Time War is positively horrific.

"What?" Charley asks, seeing far more of her reaction than she'd intended. "How old is he for you?"

Rose shakes her head. "I can't say." She sighs and launches into the Doctor's standard speech. "Your future hasn't happened yet. He must've explained it to you; time is in flux. Just because he doesn't remember you now – that can change. You never know. But if I tell you, it's interfering with the natural course of things. It could have untold consequences." Her voice drops off weakly as she realises just how much of a cop-out this explanation is.

But Charley only nods and looks away.

"…_just before the Time War…"_ his words echo in her mind again and the morbid curiosity burns in her like acid. "Has he taken you to his home planet?" she asks.

"Gallifrey?" Charley replies, making Rose frown at the unfamiliar name, until her slow brain remembers that he's never told it to her before. "No," Charley continues with a weak chuckle. "He says he didn't save me from the R101 only to have the Time Lords bore me to death."

Rose chokes back something in her throat that's two parts surprise, one part sadness, and just a trace of mirth, because, though she's never heard him speak this way about his people, it still sounds just like something he'd say.

Charley shifts in her seat and slides her legs down so she's sitting upright. She grasps the seat of the bench with both hands and looks away, scanning the park surrounding them as the draft tosses her hair to and fro. "I'm sorry," she says finally, turning to look at Rose over her shoulder as she leans forward in her seat. "I know you and him…"

Rose swallows down the lump forming in her throat. "Not him," she cuts Charley off with a vigorous shake of her head, assuring the girl that she's not going to be a rival for her Doctor's affections. "It was John Smith, the human. _He's_ the one I…" She breaks off, closes her eyes and sucks in a breath. "Not him," she repeats, speaking to herself as much as to Charley, because she knows now: it wasn't the Doctor she loved, it was a human. It was a man with the spirit of a Time Lord buried within – and maybe that's what drew her to him on some level, but it was also his humanity. Everything they'd shared together was so _very_ human, full of love and joy and tiny earthbound pleasures.

She didn't love him because he was the Doctor. She loved him because he was the _human_ Doctor.

The realisation meanders in her mind for a moment in search of a path, some sort of conclusion that she knows is there, but it's buried behind the haze of heartache that she's floundering in right now.

She looks at this girl sitting next to her and Sarah Jane comes to mind. She remembers the older woman's words of wisdom to her, and now she finds herself in the same position; now _she's_ the older, more experienced woman. Charley seems so very young; still a teenager by all appearances, and a million thoughts jumble through Rose's mind that she wants to share with her, and to warn her about.

She opens her mouth to speak, but then she closes it again, realising she's only going to come off sounding sanctimonious. The girl needs to live her own life and find out for herself.

They sit together in shivering, grey silence until the rasping sound of the TARDIS's engines sounds nearby, indicating the return of the two Doctors.

* * *

It's almost dark by this point, the city a tangled mishmash of narrow coloured lights that illuminate their targets and cast shadows in their wake, further blackening everything left behind.

They find the blue box nestled underneath the awning of a dry-cleaner's shop, in a row of similar shops that are closed up for the day. In the distance they can hear evidence of activity; those nocturnal parts of the city that wake up when the sun goes down, but that's all far off. This piece of the street is vacant and quiet and perfectly private for the farewells that need to be said.

Because the world is saved, the Doctor is safe – both of them – and now he's leaving.

And this tells her for certain; all lingering doubts that she might've had as to his identity are put to rest, because she knows that this is what the Doctor does. He fights the monsters, he saves the world – and then he goes away, leaving behind all the victims and casualties of his battles without a second thought.

Only perhaps there _is_ a second thought this time, because the Doctor – the one travelling with Charley – is being very gentle with her. He's going about the business of departing, talking with his future self; he's preparing Charley for their trip, he's assuring them all that the alien creature is dead and poses no further threat, and he's clearly avoiding all direct contact with her.

It occurs to her that this Doctor has a certain softness about him; an empathy coupled with those manners of his, and all of it wrapped up in his old-world appearance that's particularly evident now that he's changed his clothes into an old-fashioned style outfit that Charley tells her is more his normal style of dress. She studies this version of him as she ponders the events that are still in his future; the war that will batter away the carefree, almost childlike quality so evident in him, and leave behind the sharp points and hard edges of her first Doctor – the man she'd met in that department store basement, in her past, his future.

And with that thought, she finds a compassion for him that makes it just a little bit easier to look him in the eye.

It gets harder again when he comes to her and offers to take her with him.

"Just to your home universe," he clarifies, holding up a hand as if to stop her from going too far; from thinking he's offering more than he is. "Just to help you find my future self again." He pauses and bows his head slightly, deferentially. "If that's what you want."

It isn't.

She's still sorting through the whys and the hows of it all; how the false human named John Smith could've had such a true effect on her; how the man hiding the soul of a Time Lord could've grounded her so completely to the human life. She doesn't understand it yet, but she knows it's true and right.

So she shakes her head. "No, thanks," she says and when his eyebrows shoot up questioningly, she declines to respond.

John would've understood without any explanation.

* * *

The real surprise comes when his other self stays as well. The departing Doctor made the offer to her; she knows that he's almost certainly done the same for his future self, but when his earlier self steps towards the TARDIS where Charley has already disappeared inside, Rose sees how the taller man is hanging back. How he shakes his head slightly at the owner of the blue box, and then there's a silent conversation between the two – raised eyebrows, a sideways tilt of the head, and then a nod and an accepting sigh.

And she's stunned by it all, because he could've gone back to find his duplicate, and certainly that would've carried its share of issues with it, but she doesn't doubt that his duplicate would've found a place for him somewhere in the universe. A place with more to offer than the life here – an Earthbound life that's devoid of all real travel apart from bouncing about on the surface of this tiny planet. A life that carries the constant, painful reminder of their failure together.

And yet he chooses to stay.

She doesn't get much chance to contemplate it all, because just then, the man in the waistcoat and cravat turns to her in farewell. "Rose," he says to her softly, his eyebrows tilted under chestnut curls as he looks at her cautiously. The voice is startling as it speaks her name; it makes her shiver with its likeness to his human self, and her raw wounds smart with the memories it evokes of his touch, his kiss, his breath whispering through her. "Rose, I'm so sorry," he apologises.

She looks down. "It's not your fault." It's her mantra today.

He lifts a hand, hesitates, and then brushes fingers over her cheek. His touch is cold and just a little bit rough, detached and alien and so different that she looks up, meets his gaze and finds his face now edged with the brashness of the Time Lord. "He loved you," he informs her in a sort of matter-of-fact manner of a person stumbling through a foreign language.

Her fists clench and she turns away. "He wasn't real," she murmurs.

"He was," the Doctor corrects her, pivoting on his toes to look up and away from her. "He was human and he was real and he'll always be a part of me."

Behind him, she sees the pinstriped Doctor push his hands into his pockets as he ambles round the perimeter of the area around the blue box as if he's in orbit, always looking away. "Do you remember?" she asks suddenly, questioning the man facing her. She knows she's grabbing for something in this Doctor that may or may not be there, but, she reasons, there were traces of the Doctor in John, why shouldn't there be traces of John in the Doctor? "I mean, of course you remember," she continues, shaking her head at herself, "but what's it like? Carrying someone else's memories?"

"You know what it's like?" he explains, like a traveller sharing a story of a particularly fascinating spectacle. "It's like seeing a film, or reading a book – the best book in the universe, and it's so good that it draws you right in and you identify with the main character so closely that you see the whole story through his eyes. You see it and you feel it and touch it, and their joy is your joy – their heartbreak is your heartbreak." He looks at her pointedly with a pause.

"And then it ends," she supplies before the silence can stretch out for too long.

He nods. "Then it ends, and you return to your own reality, but the experience still stays with you; transforms you, like the greatest works of art can do. You're never quite the same again." He breathes in and out, his hair blowing a little with a passing breeze and something warm flickers in him like a spark amongst cold ashes, making her hold her breath until he speaks again. "He's not gone, Rose. He's inside me and he always will be." His eyes travel up over her shoulder where she knows the other Doctor is standing, before falling back to look at her again.

He steps to her, takes her hand between his alien fingers, raises it to his lips and lays a soft kiss on her knuckles.

Then he releases her, turns and disappears into the blue box, and she's left behind again.

* * *

They watch the TARDIS dematerialise and she almost laughs at the sense of déjà vu – the symmetry of it all.

Left behind again. Forced together again.

But just like symmetry, just like a reflection in a mirror, everything is backwards this time. Last time there was no choice. This time, it's all up to her.

Last time, he was new but she'd accepted him into her life without question, like an intimate.

This time, she knows him just well enough to see that she hardly knows him at all.

Because he's still here.

Because despite everything; despite the trainers and pinstripes, the wild hair and gesticulating hands, the mouth that prattles on given the slightest provocation; despite every reminder of the Doctor he carries in himself, he's _still here_. He'd had his chance to go back and find the Doctor and the TARDIS and reclaim his old life, and he'd chosen not to.

Without the slightest hesitation.

Together they stare at the space where the blue box had been. Her feet are planted on the pavement, her body is stiff and numb with grief, and her every breath is a conscious effort as she turns to look at him.

He's looking down at the ground. A nearby shop sign casts a blue light over his face, creating threads of colour through his hair, illuminating one side of his face with its wavering glow and sending its shadow to the other side. He kicks at something on the ground and speaks almost in a whisper. "You didn't go – you didn't go back to him." He's treading so carefully with her it's almost painful to watch; might be painful but for the fact that she needs it right now. The statement is out there, spoken plain and simple and it's her choice as to whether or not to respond.

She does. "Can't go back," she says, the words succinct and overloaded with meaning. "Ever."

He dares a glance directly at her, his head still tilted down as he looks up at her through lashes and looks away again. "You're still angry with him," he surmises, still handling her so delicately; too delicately to ask it directly.

She shakes her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. "No," she explains, because he needs to know. "M'not angry any more. I just – can't go back." She lifts her eyes to show him hers; turns into the wavering light. She knows the sorrow is still so fresh in her, but so is the certainty. "Time to be a human again," she adds.

He stares at her with those brown eyes of his, looking so serious like everything in the world centres around right here and now and everything is up to her. The silence lasts a matter of a few seconds but she still manages to lose herself in it; it's mesmerising the way it's laden with substance and clarity.

He breaks the silence finally, sucking in a breath, hesitating like he's got a universe of things to say and doesn't quite know where to start. "Rose, I…"

She holds up a hand, cuts him off. "I need some time, OK?" she asks; begs. "I can't – I just – I need time to make some sense of this all. On my own."

His brow creases as he swallows back whatever it was that he was about to say. He nods, and she presses her lips together in a tiny smile of gratitude before she turns to leave.

_tbc_


	25. Chapter 25: Renewal and Reconciliation

Chapter 25: Renewal and Reconciliation

* * *

A/N: Many, many thanks to everyone who has contributed to or read and enjoyed this story over these past few months. I've had a great time writing this and everybody's comments have been icing on the cake. In particular, I'd just like to mention sunnytyler001, who planted the seed in my head that grew into this story, imzadimylove, my wonderful beta, MizJoely, my fabulous beta, cytherea999, who beta'd the first few chapters until she became incapacitated by a large truck, lorelaisquared who listened to my random rantings and brainstorming and helped me with the overarching concepts along the way, silvers_shadows who provided some Britpicking services, and alizarin_skies who did the beautiful artwork. Wow, that's a long list! I've never had so much help & support for any of my stories before and it's been amazing!

For anybody interested in reading some of my ramblings and thoughts on this story chapter by chapter, I'll be posting a commentary to my LJ, username meremoon.

* * *

She has headstones made for both of them; her lost lover and her unborn child. She has them placed on her parents' estate, round the perimeter of the grounds, and she visits them regularly.

She talks to John, speaking to the cold stone as if he could hear her. She lies down in the grass, curls round the grave and hugs it to her, remembering the touch of his flesh.

She plants flowers and cares for them like she would've cared for her child.

She cries herself to sleep so many nights, remembering his laugh, the crinkle round his eyes when he smiled, his slight frame that somehow held such strength and assuredness. She remembers his kiss, the sound of her name on his lips.

And she mourns.

* * *

She makes up a story; something involving a family tragedy or some other random calamity in order to explain to the school why he's not coming back.

To Tony, she tells a bit more of the truth: she tells him that his teacher gave up his life to save all of theirs from an alien threat. "He was a real hero," she says, smiling through tears as she tousles the boy's hair affectionately.

Tony wipes at his eyes. "Like the Doctor?" he asks.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "Like a human. He was his own kind of hero." She pulls him into a hug round her waist.

She tells the whole story to Mum, and she watches as incredulity turn to sorrow and then to regret on her face as Mum hears who John really was, what he did to save the Doctor – and what the Doctor had tried to do for her.

* * *

Pete gives her leave from work for as long as she wants, but after a week she needs to get back to it. She returns to the daily duties of her life and her job; occasionally an alien chase or a particularly intriguing mystery gives her the chance to lose herself for a time, and it's a welcome relief, for a short time anyway.

She functions on a purely mechanical level for longer than she cares to think of.

Then one day she's early for a morning meeting, and Jake is there. He sits at the conference table poring over his notes – or, she suspects, merely pretending to pore over them in order to ignore the awkward silence that's always between them, where Mickey used to be.

And she thinks that enough is enough. So she takes a nervous sip of her coffee and she holds the cup up in his direction. "Jake," she prods.

He looks up from his notes, his face straight and serious.

She swishes her coffee cup and touches her tongue to her teeth with the beginnings of a grin. "Remember how Mickey was always late to these meetings? Always tripping over himself and spilling coffee, trying to get here on time?"

A light glimmers on his face and he matches her smile. "Which he never actually was," he adds with a laugh. "It's ridiculous how many messes he made."

"You finally started taking the cup away from him the moment he walked in, to save him from himself," Rose supplies.

"And he _still_ managed to knock it out of my hands and spill it all over my trousers," he responds, laughing outright now. They laugh together, sharing the memory of their lost friend, until they're not any more. Until it ends and Jake looks away out the window and Rose knows it's going to take more than a shared anecdote from the past to re-forge a friendship.

So she tucks her hair behind her ear and bites her lip. "I miss him," she confesses.

His eyes flash something undefinable before settling into agreement. "Yeah," he agrees with a nod. "Me too."

There's a perceptible shift in the air with those words, a deep and easy breath expelling old, stale air. There's been so much blame flying about, so much grief surrounding the Doctor and only now does she begin to see that Mickey had his share too. It should've been obvious – Jake has been hanging on to something – or perhaps against something, against _her,_ and though it's not her fault, she's still sorry she didn't see it sooner.

But now the silence is open and inviting, so she raises her eyebrows with a question to bring them both into the here and now. "So how've you been?"

"Not bad," he replies slowly, unsure where this is going.

She nudges him along. "Work?"

He shrugs. "Been mostly busy with the teleportation project your father's got us working on. He's been leaning on us pretty hard for some results."

She remembers hearing Pete grumbling about it in an almost grudging way, and she seizes the chance to throw a gibe at him. "That's not how I heard it," she grins playfully. "Pete said something about a broken multimode stabilizer and too many long lunches with Laura from Interstellar Relations downstairs."

The mention of the name makes him suck in a breath and puff out his chest. His face flushes red, confirming the rumours without a single word spoken. He straightens, squares his shoulders and volleys back at her. "Oh, so I'm not allowed to have a life now, is that it?" he demands, his eyes flitting back and forth with a little embarrassment and a lot of delight at the mention of his girlfriend.

Rose knows the girl; she can recall interviewing her when she was hired. She's a tiny bundle of bubbly, slightly nervous energy, long dark hair and thick glasses atop a petite frame, with a genius aptitude for interstellar communications technologies and a mouth that's hard pressed to stop moving once it's started. She'd liked her almost immediately, but as was often the case, her position as the boss's daughter – not to mention former companion of the legendary Doctor – tended to make her unreachable to most overtures of friendship among Torchwood employees.

Jake goes on to tell her more about the girl, and Rose sits back in her chair contentedly as she listens. When Pete enters the room followed by the rest of the meeting crew, she motions to Jake that they'll continue the conversation later.

And they do. They go for drinks after work, and Jake brings his girlfriend along, and when Rose tells her about the time the Altherians kidnapped Jake and interrogated him by tickling him for four hours straight, Laura nearly spits out her drink, the ice is broken and she knows they're going to be great friends.

* * *

Gradually her life starts to fill up with friends and loved ones, and contentment creeps in like warmth in the springtime.

She still visits John's grave regularly, but gradually she starts to notice other things as she does; the way the sun dances through the leaves in the trees overhead; the smell of the grass when the gardener's just done the mowing, and crying over him starts to have a cleansing effect. It's cathartic in a way that it never was all those times that she lost the Doctor before, because now she has closure. Their love was real and it came to a final, absolute end, through no fault of theirs, and now her life has to move on without him.

* * *

The Doctor is as good as his word; he keeps away, doesn't phone her, and the only reminder she has of him over these months comes in the form of a small bouquet of flowers, hand-picked, that she finds on her doorstep when she arrives home after work on her birthday.

There's no card, but nor is there any doubt who it's from, and she knows his silence isn't for lack of things to say.

She picks up the flowers and unlocks the door, steps inside and fetches a vase. She fills it with water, adds the flowers and then she places the entire assembly on the coffee table. Then she sinks down into the sofa and stares at them until her vision blurs and the red petals are glowing in front of her like a neon sign.

And she ponders how hard it is, loving a man with multiple faces.

But it's much more than that, because so much has changed for her these past few months. She's found her footing at last; she's found her place in this Earthbound life. It's an unusual place, somewhere in between the life she ran away from and the life that was taken from her. It's the middle ground between the two and if she's going to share it with anyone, they'll have to fit here as well.

She knows there's only one person in the universe who might, but she's still unsure if he will. That metacrisis left him with his duplicate's face, his hair and his lanky frame, his gob and all the trimmings of the original Time Lord, but inside him something new has been forming since the day she brought him home; since the moment he told her he loved her when his duplicate wouldn't. She wants to call it a humanity, and certainly the irony isn't lost on her; the fact that they had both fought against his humanity so very hard, but that same humanity was what she'd treasured and cherished in John. It had brought him a sense of peace and ease with himself and she wonders if the same might go for this future, half-human version of him.

After all, he'd chosen to stay here.

She wonders, but she still can't bring herself to pick up the phone and ring him to find out. It's just too much; what ought to be a simple phone call has become a grand gesture that's just too heavy for her to take on.

She thinks maybe she's just waiting for the right pretence.

* * *

It comes, of course, and when it does, it's entirely unexpected.

It comes one day when Torchwood is in the thick of a first-contact situation with a race of aliens known as the Olmarrans. They've been tracking their alien vessel for several days now, but today the signal is suddenly garbled, and all indicators point to a much more local source of interference.

It's at this point that they receive a phone call from the local police regarding a disturbance in a hat shop in King's Cross, which happens to be the very same area where they've located the source of the interference.

It's highly doubtful that it's a coincidence, so she takes a team of two operatives with her to the scene in question. When they arrive, they enter the shop to find a contraption set up between the fedoras and the berets, resembling an enormous kumquat with wires and dials and a myriad of electrical connections worthy of Dr. Frankenstein himself. But they hardly have time to examine it and wonder before a head pops up from behind like a jack-in-the-box, and there he is, twisting wires and examining readouts and looking just as wild and brown as ever. He spots her companions first and he clicks his tongue with a wink. "Hello," he greets them with his patent silly grin. "Torchwood, I presume? I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here – I happened to pick up on a signal from the Olmarrans – truly nasty creatures with an unfortunate tendency to descend on the less developed planets, infect first and ask questions later." He shudders. "Most unpleasant creatures, I assure you and that's not even mentioning how they treat the poultry on their planet. Hopefully you'll never find out." He gives a bang with a hammer, accidentally hitting his finger in the process, and he jumps, squealing in pain. "If I could just get this to..."

And that's when he looks up finally, spots her and it's like he's been thumped in the head, how abruptly all the mirth drains off his face. "Rose."

But there's more pressing matters to address right now, so she pushes all personal matters aside and gets straight to business, questioning him on what he's doing here. The story unfolds, his explanation details the dangers they would've faced with the Olmarrans, and how he's managed to send them packing with the news of a recent migration of mosquitoes to Chelmsford – because it seems that the Olmarrans are deadly allergic to mosquitoes.

Put simply, he's saved the world. Again.

Once the commotion dies down; once they're certain the Olmarrans are off on their way, once the shop owner has been dealt with and the Doctor is busy dismantling his contraption, she sends her companions back to Torchwood and sidles over to where he's working away. He's hunched over his equipment and doesn't hear her approach until she folds her arms over her chest, gives a bemused smile and then a loud sigh.

It startles his attention up to her; startles him even more when he sees her grinning. "What?"

She taps her fingers on her forearm. "Some things never change," she muses.

His eyes darken and she's no idea how, but she thinks she's annoyed him. "And some things do," he retorts as he looks back down at his work, gives a twist with the spanner in his hand, an abrupt jerk like he's trying to break it.

He's meeting levity with chagrin. He's refusing to make light; refusing to gloss over the past burdens between them with charm and prattle. It's an unexpected reaction, and consequently so is her response. Once she gets past the surprise, she looks at him anew and intrigued."Yeah," she agrees wholeheartedly. "That's what's so brilliant about it."

Now it's his turn to be surprised as he looks up again, his brow creased in confusion. "About what?"

She shrugs. "Time. The universe." She smiles, tries to show it to him, but her eyes keep wandering off no matter how many times she steers them back. The way he's staring at her, it's hardly surprising.

After an absurdly long time of this, she decides one of them has to move. So she turns, takes a step away and looks back at him in a casual way that's only slightly forced. "Come on," she beckons with a toss of her head. "I'm meeting Jake and his girlfriend for drinks down the pub." She waves her hand invitingly. "Come with us?"

He doesn't fail to notice her choice of pronoun, the 'us' that includes Jake as a buffer to make this easier for both of them, but he still looks hesitant. "Really?" he probes.

She nods and then he does too.

* * *

They're an awkward pair at the pub, and that awkwardness spreads to their two other companions as the four of them sit stiffly round the small table. She's hyper-aware of how he positions himself as he sits next to her, plants himself a firm distance away so they can't possibly bump accidentally. She's no better where she sits, her eyes constantly flitting down into her glass as she runs her hand up and down the outside, wetting her fingers in the condensation. She feels her every movement exaggerated; even her breathing keeps her in motion, her chest moving in and out, closer and back again.

But then the drinks start to flow, and there's food delivered. Anecdotes are shared about the days' work that tangent into playful gibes, thrown in every direction except between the two of them. The public place, their two friends at the table, mean there are clearly defined boundaries; so long as they remain in this setting, nothing can happen. It's an odd sort of confined freedom that allows them to start venturing glances at each other, nudging at those boundaries that prove to be more elastic than rigid. He tops off her glass of wine, she helps herself to a bite of food off his plate, and when she grabs for his arm through laughter at a particularly hilarious joke, he doesn't shrink back. On the contrary, after she releases hold on him, she's fairly certain he edges closer to her in his seat.

She follows suit; her arm brushes on his, and the hairs tickle together as they come to rest against each other.

And then she feels him stiffen.

He stiffens, and then he's miles away again, moving his arm from hers with the pretence of lifting his glass to take a sip. It's all smoothed over like pulling a jumper over a stained shirt, and then he's all charm and wide grins and false joviality for the rest of the evening.

Though actually, the evening comes to a close only a short time later when Jake makes an offhand comment about being tired and the Doctor suggests, just a little too hastily, that it's time to call it a night. And before she knows it, Jake and Laura are gone, and the Doctor is offering her a cordial and extremely distant thanks for the invitation before he's off too.

She stands on the pavement outside and watches him go, his long coat and trainers fading off into the night, until bewilderment finally explodes into urgency in her brain. She takes off after him, following him with a gait that's halfway between a walk and a run. "Doctor!" she calls. She's got no idea what she's going to say when she catches up, just that it needs to be said.

She hurries in the direction she saw him go, until she turns a corner and spots him. "Doctor!" she calls again, and this time he hears and stops.

He turns to her, his face shadowed by doubt and confusion and city lights. "Jon," he corrects as she comes to face him.

Her breath is far shorter than it ought to be after that short jog, and she feels herself flush against the cold night air. She shakes her head at herself. "Jon," she amends. "Right, sorry. I still haven't got used to it."

He pushes his hands into his pockets and looks up with a tired sigh. "Rose, you don't have to get used to anything. I just…"

"I want to."

It's firm and sudden, the way she cuts him off with those three words. They're out of her mouth before they're fully formed in her mind; they're unexpected, true and honest. It's exactly what she wants him to know: she wants to know him. She wants to get used to him. She hasn't yet.

The fact that she hasn't is proven once again by his reaction. There's a frown on his face full of scepticism, but she can make out so much more underneath – layers of pain or vulnerability, she's not sure, but it's there in him, hiding but not completely concealed. It flickers in the brown of his eyes and then comes out in one simple word from his mouth; one honest question, "Why?"

The stark contrast hits her once again and she gives a laugh that's equally incredulous and affectionate. But it makes his frown deepen and she knows he's misunderstood. "You're so different," she says, meaning to explain herself and answering his question in the process. She straightens up, feels the smile fall from her face, giving way to wide eyes and resolve. "That's why," she says plainly.

He turns his head slightly as if the different angle offers a different view of her. As if he can see something new, something vital in her this way. Maybe he can. "Since when?" he asks.

A door opens behind him and a group of revellers stumble out to the street, talking and laughing. The noise brings a new awareness of her surroundings, and with the awareness comes the nerves. Her hand goes to her hair, tucks it behind her ear as she kicks at a stone on the ground. "Since always," she admits, swallowing hard at the confession. "I just didn't want to see it before."

His eyebrows rise. "And now?"

She shrugs. "Now I do."

He's silent for a moment before his shoulders sag. Before he sighs, tired and uncertain. "Rose..."

She needs to give him more; she can see that, so she shakes her head hard to silence him before he can object further. "It's different this time," she says. He raises an eyebrow at her. "It is," she insists. "Last time he came between us. This time he's what's bringing me back to you." The pronoun is left deliberately vague; it could refer to any number of faces of _him_ – but still they're all him and they're all leading her back here.

He folds his arms over his chest doubtfully. Still, he doesn't draw back when she takes a step closer.

"Last time it was all about who you weren't," she explains, looking up at him from under her ducked head and earnest brow. "Now it's all about who you _are_."

She looks down, chewing her lip as she reaches out a tentative hand, hesitates, then finds his to give it a squeeze. She's encouraged when she feels his fingers curl back round hers, but his stance remains still, giving nothing away.

Slowly, she lifts her gaze up over the close-shaven skin of his neck, past his cheek that's freckled and slightly tanned, to fall finally into his.

The face that greets her is something to behold. He's all wide eyes and warmth edged with uncertainty. He's untamed hair and the smell of a thousand other worlds, with a human heart and a human smile that's directed at _her_, and as he smiles down she lets out a breath, realising just how hard she's been holding it.

The smile she returns is a bit shier but no less enthusiastic. She leans closer, touches her forehead to his shoulder, and her heart pounds harder when she feels his fingers thread through her hair, holding her to him.

Something unwinds within her and she sighs into him. Her free hand finds its way round his back and she feels his breath on her brow, his lips pressing in her hair to do wonderful things. It's right and it's real, the way they fit together in the embrace, soft and warm where it used to be sharp and cold. It's familiarity mixed up with new places to explore, and she holds onto him for a wonderful eternity that's too full for words, just breathing into his shirt, stroking his hand with her thumb and listening to his contented heartbeat thrumming in his chest.

She's come home at last.

They both have.

And knowing they're home means they can take their time, so she lets the moment pass quietly and then she pulls back just enough to find him with her gaze, upward looking and forward facing. "I was surprised to see you," she murmurs. His hand slides down her arm and she catches it with hers, twining their fingers together. "In London, I mean," she clarifies.

He runs his free hand through his hair thoughtfully. "Well, I've been staying in the area – more or less lately," he says, tilting his head to the side. "Doing a little teaching, the occasional alien investigation. Your father calls me for help every so often." She looks surprised and he shrugs. "I thought it might be time to start making my own adventures, instead of expecting them to come to me."

The words echo through her, bringing back memories of a darkened school building, another man – the same man – saying much the same thing. _"You don't stop, you never stop. You learn to make it happen; you seek out and find the adventures instead of waiting for them to find you."_

The memory gives her chills; makes her gasp and it's a reaction that doesn't go unnoticed. "What?" he asks.

She frowns slightly, looks into him with curious eyes. "You're full of ghosts, aren't you?"

He leans back from her slightly. "What do you mean?"

She closes the gap, reaches out to tap a finger on his brow. "How many different minds and different personalities have been in your head over the years?"

"Oh," he says knowingly as he rubs a hand on his cheek and ponders. "Well, this is my tenth incarnation, eleventh if you count the metacrisis, but that doesn't include any incidences of body-swapping, brainwashing, mind control." He shoots her a pointed glance. "Turning human." His eyebrows go up as his head bobs in agreement. "I suppose there've been a few."

She laughs. "See? Full of ghosts They're all in there." She pokes at his shoulder.

He looks doubtful. Narrows his eyes a bit. "Is that good or bad?"

She shrugs. "It's you." She gives his hand a tug and turns to continue down the street. "It's brilliant."

They stroll on together, old and new, human and alien come together at last in their hearts and in their lives.

He walks her home and they talk late into the night.

_fin_


End file.
